you're a hard soul to save with an ocean in the way
by Some Enchanted Evening
Summary: Her therapist asked her once what she thought drew her to 'this type' of man. At the time Lenore had been insulted, at the notion that Bryan and Stuart were the same 'type', at the suggestion that she sought out danger. Now, though, she wonders if there isn't a darkness in her that looks for that same darkness in others. Maybe they're all the same 'type' after all. (3rd movie AU)
1. Part 1

**Author's Note: **I had a few people ask me if I was going to write fic after the third movie, which, let's be real, ended on a total downer and therefore wasn't a huge inspiration.

So my reaction was to stick my fingers in my ears and go 'LA LA LA LA LA' and write an AU where we don't kill off one of our three main characters. Please ignore all the improbability and hand-waving that is involved in making this happen. Hopefully you'll enjoy the ride anyway!

Title is taken from Florence and the Machine.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you see, as per the usual.

* * *

Like all women, Lenore has pictured her daughter's wedding since Kim was a little girl. Also like most women, she suspects, her imaginings do not match up to the reality at all.

She hadn't thought that her baby would have a baby of her own, dressed in a flower girl dress wider than she is tall. And she'd expected it to be a bigger affair, thinking they would have to accommodate three sets of extended family – hers, Bryan's, and Stuart's.

That list, in the end, had been cut dramatically, and not just Stuart's relatives. When one's very life is on trial, being nitpicked and critiqued for all the world to see, friends and family feel more than welcome to share their opinions, no matter how unsavory they may be. It isn't the way Lenore would have liked to have learned exactly what some of her aunts and cousins thought of her, but at least now she knows. They might have tried to disguise their criticism beneath honeyed tones and concern-laden questions, but their implications had been clear – what had happened to Lenore had been her own fault.

There are members of her family in attendance that she could have cut, too – people she hasn't spoken to in years, who surprised Lenore by RSVPing and are now spending the reception gossiping behind cupped hands about the court case and studying Lenore's neck despite the fact that she'd chosen a banded choker necklace to cover her scar.

Bryan's family is small to begin with, and his relationships with them had suffered just as surely as his with Lenore and Kim had during his years in the CIA, but there are holes there, as well. Lenore can only imagine what some of them had to say – the notoriously difficult ex-wife, getting her due. (She can only imagine, because Bryan would never tell her.)

Kim is happy, though – radiant, glowing, and that at least is exactly as Lenore imagined. And seeing Kim so awash in joy is something that has become rarer in the last few years, making it all the more special. Kim loves being a mother, loves her now-husband, but things have been more difficult in the past few years than any of them had ever imagined.

Kim's happiness is contagious, and even Bryan looks better off than Lenore had expected. There had been a moment, when he had been walking her down the aisle, that she had worried that maybe he simply would refuse to let her go. But it would seem she hasn't given him enough credit. He's gotten better, in the last few years, despite all the trials that have come their way. Perhaps being around, being a fixture in her daily life, has made him less desperate to hold on as tightly as he possibly can. Perhaps it's simply that he likes Jimmy – well, as much as Bryan would like any of Kim's boyfriends.

Whatever it is, Lenore is glad for a bit of peace.

* * *

Jimmy's mother had offered to take the baby after the ceremony, to watch her and get her ready for bed up in one of the hotel rooms, but after an hour or two at the reception Lenore wishes she had offered to do so instead.

Kim is enjoying herself and that should be enough, but slowly but surely Lenore can feel the tension creeping up her neck, settling into her shoulders. It's nothing new for her, putting on a long dress and painting a smile on her face. Stuart always had some sort of fancy dinner, a gala, a banquet, an entertainment, and she would be at his side like a dutiful wife. She had enjoyed them, at first, a taste of a life she had never expected to have. It had been like playing dress-up, and she had been swept up in the glamour of it all. But soon the shine had worn off, and they had become chores more than anything, full of empty chatter and meaningless small talk.

There is that same sort of awkwardness with the guests she speaks to at the reception – they chat about how beautiful the wedding was, what a lovely bride Kim made, how big little Amanda was getting and how precious she had looked in her flower girl dress, and then cast around for any other trivial topics to avoid discussing anything that might be uncomfortable.

On the one hand, she's grateful – she's had enough of people prying into her personal life and relationships, but on the other, she's exhausted. At her table, the conversation has moved on without her and she tries her best to smile and pretend to listen, nodding and making hums of agreement when appropriate, while pushing around the remains of the wedding cake on her plate, trying to look busy.

A hand lands on her shoulder, brushing the bare skin at the juncture of her neck, and she flinches, startled. She hates it, but she's forever on edge now, on guard, her nerves skating on a razor's edge.

"Hey," Bryan says, squeezing her shoulder lightly. Sometimes she hates the way he speaks to her anymore, forever with a soothing tone, like she is a spooked animal that needs calming. He treats her like she's fragile, talks to her like she could shatter at any moment, and she thinks it would make her angry if she didn't know the awful truth that some days, she really is barely holding it together.

She can't be angry that he sees her for how she really is, and so she settles for being sad.

But today, she's relieved more than anything for the interruption. Bryan's seat is across the room, with Sam and Casey and Bernie, and so they haven't spoken for much of the reception. "Hey," she echoes with a smile.

"Want to dance?" he asks, tipping his head towards the dance floor before adding with a rueful smile and a self-mocking chuckle, "Apparently, I'm supposed to let Kim dance with her husband a few times at their wedding."

"Sure," she hastily agrees, happy for the opportunity to get up, the excuse to leave. She ignores the curious looks of the friends from work that she is sitting with as she takes his hand. She is pretty sure at this point that everyone in their lives thinks their relationship is strange, and they are probably right, but it is what it is, and she relies on whatever it is.

Even Kim finds it strange, had questioned Lenore outright about it just a few weeks ago. 'I just don't get why you guys don't give it another try,' she had said. 'It's obviously what you both want.'

Lenore had done what she does best, and dodged the question, and changed the subject to something safer, the way she is used to doing. For all the growing up her little girl has done, there are still ways in which Kim is so _young_. She sees things in such black and white, still, and still doesn't really understand that you can want something, but that doesn't mean it's meant to be.

It isn't that she doesn't still think about it, think about _him_. But there had been her recovery and Kim's pregnancy, and then the trial during which Amanda had been born, bringing with her all the craziness that an infant carries with them into the world…but mostly it is the fact that even when life had settled into a new normal in regards to the new baby, Lenore doesn't think she'll ever be that woman again, the one who sat in Bryan's kitchen and told him what she wanted. Lenore had survived the attack three years ago but that woman had died, and that woman had been the one Bryan had loved. Now…she isn't sure who she is, what she is, only that more often than not she suspects that she is better off alone, that she is meant to be alone.

She had been shaken after Istanbul, rocked to her core, but it is an entirely different thing to try and come to terms with the fact that a man she had lived with, a man she had married and loved for years, had tried to have her killed. It is easier to reconcile the idea that strangers in a foreign country had wished her harm, and the whole nightmare had seemed far away when they had returned to sunny Los Angeles.

But with Stuart, there are reminders everywhere. She'd left the house, gotten rid of the car, but there's no possible way to simply forget the last decade of her life. And with every reminder comes the realization anew that not only had her husband betrayed her in the worst possible way, but she had betrayed herself, for thinking she knew him, for thinking she knew _anything_.

She hadn't wanted to be married to Stuart anymore, that much had been true. She hadn't been _in love _with him anymore, but she had still cared for him, deeply, had still felt her heart crack and fall apart a bit when she came home from Bryan's apartment that night with renewed resolve and told Stuart _enough is enough, we need to let this go_. She hadn't wanted it to turn ugly, she told him, she hadn't wanted to look back on their marriage with regret. They'd lost their way long ago and it had been time to admit that their paths would never lead back to one another.

She thinks about that discussion, about how he had sat silently and then quietly agreed, something that had surprised her after so many months of rebuttals as to why they should give it one more try, give it a little more time. At that point, everything must have been in place, and he would have thought it wouldn't matter in a few days anyway. And then she wonders about the last few troubling years, and wonders if he _ever _wanted to work it out, or if he simply needed the marriage for his insurance scam. When had he decided to have her killed? Exactly how much of their marriage had been a lie?

Bryan's hand at her back brings her back to the present, and she takes the opportunity, at their proximity, to examine him. "You still clean up pretty well," she teases, and she reaches out to smooth the lapel of his tux with light fingertips. Despite the hesitance of her touch, she can still feel his laugh, a low rumble in his chest.

"You too," he returns, and he smiles at her before leaning closer, confessing in a whisper, "I don't know any of this music."

She snorts in response, taking his free hand, lazily swaying to the music, following the beat easily enough even if the tune isn't familiar. "Me either," she confides. "Jesus, when did we get so _old_?"

Bryan quirks an eyebrow. "Probably around the time we became _grandparents_."

Over his shoulder, she can see Kim dancing with Jimmy, a beaming smile on her face. She doesn't look back at her mother; Lenore wouldn't be surprised if Kim had forgotten anyone else were in the room at all. She's happy for her daughter's happiness but it makes her wistful, too. "I feel like it was just yesterday we were bringing her home from the hospital. Now she's married and has her own baby. She's really all grown up."

"She is," Bryan agrees quietly, and there's the same sort of melancholy to his voice, tinged with regret that being around the past six years can't erase – sorrow for the missing years between her birth and adulthood, lost in countries far away. "It went fast."

Instinctively, she drops her cheek to press against his shoulder, her face turned against his neck while he absently rubs soothing circles on her back. She'd always liked the way her head had fit there, when they had been married. She'd sprouted like a weed just after she'd turned twelve, and Bryan was the first – and only – man she'd ever been in a relationship with that she had to physically look up at. It still feels the same, to stand with him this way. He still _smells _the same, that special-occasion-cologne that she used to like so much because it was something that belonged to home, and not to his work.

The wave of longing, of sadness, of loneliness comes unbidden, but not entirely unexpected, and she blinks tears back, glad that the lighting is dim, glad that today of all days no one will ask why she's crying.

"You okay?" Bryan asks gently, and Lenore thinks briefly of how ironic it is that he's the one asking her that, when she knows that he's been dreading this day since the moment Kim was born.

She wants to tell him then, about the call she'd gotten from her lawyer, the unwelcome news he had to offer. It's been weighing on her all day, and is probably part of why she's so restless on a day that should be happy.

"I'm fine," she replies instead, lifting her head back up, smiling but not quite meeting his eye despite the fact that she can feel him scrutinizing her. "You know. Just a big day."

"Yeah…" he answers, in a tone that suggests he isn't wholly convinced.

But he lets the subject drop, he gives her space. That's one thing Bryan has always been good at, giving her space. Sometimes she feels like there isn't much keeping her tethered anymore.

She loves him. She's always loved him, even in the years that those feelings were buried deep beneath anger and resentment and frustration, but she is pretty sure that their time is over. If ever there was a second chance for them, they missed it.

Life is like that, sometimes.

* * *

She doesn't remember much of what happened three years ago, something that is probably a blessing to her but had proved a curse to everyone else involved in the case.

She remembers the text from Bryan (or _not _from Bryan, she would find out much later), and driving out to meet him, wondering all the while why he picked such a strange, isolated place. She remembers walking towards the gas station, the feel of being grabbed from behind by strange hands, and then…nothing. Nothing else, until she woke up in the hospital, unable to speak, her throat bandaged.

Her faulty memory hadn't prevented Dotzler and his team from plying her with an endless stream of questions, ones that she had to answer in writing while she healed. They had asked a few general questions, _do you have any enemies, have you received any strange phone calls or visitors lately_, but they had zeroed in on Bryan almost immediately. How was their relationship, why was she going to meet him, why had he chosen somewhere so off the beaten path? And then, the questions had grown much more personal. Why had they gotten divorced. Was he ever violent towards her. Was she afraid of him.

They hadn't liked her answers. The picture they painted had not resembled the man she knew at all; it had been as though they were trying to put a puzzle together using the wrong pieces. Lenore had been as certain of his innocence as the detectives – except, perhaps Dotzler who had seemed more pensive from the start – were of his guilt. She didn't have any answers or explanations to offer them as to why Bryan wanted her to meet him at that gas station or how she ended up in his apartment, something that frustrated her at least as much as it frustrated them, but the idea that Bryan would hurt her had been insane, and she had told them as much.

Of course, she had thought the same about Stuart when the life insurance policy had surfaced, and they had changed their focus. She had been convinced everything would tie back to their troubles in Paris and Istanbul, right up until the moment that she had found out who had really sent her that text message, to get her to that gas station.

Sometimes, she wishes she had the opportunity to confront him, although she can't even begin to imagine what she would say. Stuart had visited her in the hospital, before the police had turned their attentions on him, playing the part of the concerned, devoted husband. And she had been grateful for his friendship, for his company, especially when he had agreed – however reluctantly – that the culprit was far more likely to be an enemy of Bryan's than Bryan himself.

The next time she saw him, after learning the truth, had been in court. She hadn't spoken to him, then, and had simply watched him play that same part as he had in the hospital, resting his hands on the edge of the stand so his wedding band glinted in the overhead lights. It had reminded her of why the last few years of their marriage had been so miserable – she never had known what to expect from him, when he showed her one face and then turned on a dime. It had been a battleground built on psychological warfare: changing the bank PINs and house alarms, clearing and closing accounts, cancelling their reservations in China…all had been calculated to unnerve and unbalance her. It had been no wonder, then, that he could so easily hide his financial troubles from her, that she hadn't known about the huge debt he owed…or how he planned to pay it.

Sometimes she wonders if she should have confronted him, if it would have given her some closure, made things a little easier.

But most days, she simply hopes she'll never have to see him again.

* * *

The glass doors at the back of the ballroom lead out to a wide patio. It's still Los Angeles, so the air can't exactly be called fresh, but it's private and cool out now that the sun has set, and it's nice to have some quiet for a few minutes, leaning against the railing, a glass of wine resting on the ledge.

It's quiet enough that she hears the footsteps approaching, and so she isn't completely surprised when she feels a tux jacket being draped over her bare shoulders. She's warm enough without it, but the gesture is appreciated.

Bryan leans against the railing beside her, his forearms extended and hands lightly clasped. For a long moment, they look over the rolling hills in silence until he finally asks again, quietly, "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"

She shouldn't. It isn't normal, or probably even healthy, to rely on an ex-husband to act as a confidante. But she's an only child with parents who have both passed, and her circle of friends had largely consisted of friends to her and Stuart both, who had melted into the woodwork when things had gotten ugly. She refuses to burden Kim with her worries, and so the sad truth of it is that she simply doesn't have many other choices, of who to talk to. She simply doesn't have that many people who would _care_.

"Stuart is up for parole in a few weeks," she says quietly, sharing the thought that's been nagging at her all day – in truth, since she got the news. She hates that she's casting such a grim shadow over the day's festivities, hates that she is yet again using Bryan as a shoulder to lean on, but when he looks at her with such concern, it always seems to pour out of her like a tidal wave. How many times during their marriage had she longed to be looked at that way, as though she was the only thing he saw? Of course it leaves her weak now when she already feels so isolated, eager to confide, desperate for intimacy. "And I'm sure he's been a model of good behavior." She looks down at her glass of wine, twisting the stem between her fingers, watching the liquid swirl. "I don't know what to do," she confesses rawly. "My lawyer suggests a restraining order, but that involves giving him information on exactly where I live now so he knows where he's supposed to stay away from. And I keep thinking about Kim, and the baby…" her voice cracks in the middle, and she raises the glass to her lips.

Bryan's fingers brush against her wrist, but he doesn't speak. She looks down at his thumb pressed against her pulse point, and thinks about it stopping. She clears her throat. "You know," she starts, "even….when we first got divorced, and I was so angry at you, I still…I worried about you, while you were at work. I wanted you to be okay." A self-mocking smile tugs at the corners of her lips, free from mirth. "What kind of wife was I that my own husband wanted me dead?"

"No," Bryan swiftly corrects. "This wasn't your fault, Lenny, none of it was your fault."

"He was angry because he thought we were having an affair," she points out.

"We weren't."

"Because _you _have more honor than that," she reminds him wryly. "I would have, if you had let me."

His fingers slip forward, gripping hers between them, and he looks at her for a long moment. She can practically see the words tumbling around in his head, and finally he settles on, quietly, "It doesn't matter. It still doesn't excuse what he did." His grasp tightens. "I don't want you to worry, though. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, or to Kim or the baby."

Rather than comfort her, the promise makes her stomach sink. "Bryan, don't do anything that's going to get you arrested," she pleads. Charges against him in her case might have been dropped, but the LAPD had been more than piqued at the trouble that Bryan had caused in the meantime, and she has little doubt that they keep regular tabs on him – maybe all of them – now.

"Don't worry," he assures her again, and she doesn't feel better at all. It feels as though they're teetering on the edge of disaster again, and all she wants to do is retreat until her back is against the wall.

She looks over her shoulder, back through the ballroom. The group is thinning; Kim and Jimmy are nowhere to be seen. Sam, Casey, and Bernie hover inconspicuously by the door, obviously waiting for Bryan while trying to give them the illusion of privacy. "Looks like things are wrapping up," she observes. "Your friends are waiting for you."

He nods absently. "You coming in?"

"In a minute," she promises, and she sees him hesitate. "No, really, I'm fine," she adds. "I told Kim I'd take the baby overnight tonight. Jimmy's mother's had her all day. I should head upstairs anyway."

"Okay," Bryan agrees, and shakes his head when she shimmies his jacket off her shoulders. "Hold onto it. I'll get it back later." He pushes off the railing, but doesn't immediately release her hand. "You were a good wife, Lenny," he tells her quietly. He draws her fingers to his lips, pressing a light kiss against her knuckles. "I should know."

He lets go, and his footsteps fade until she hears the small click of the door closing behind him.

She's glad, then, that she still has his jacket – suddenly the night seems colder; the silence, deafening.

* * *

When she goes to get Amanda, she finds Kim there in her now mother-in-law's room, still in her wedding dress with her sleeping daughter curled up in her lap. "I wanted to kiss her good night," she whispers, and she presses what is undoubtedly not the first kiss against her smooth little forehead.

Watching the two of them together makes Lenore's heart swell, and she leans down to scoop Amanda up. "I'll take her," she says quietly. Amanda whines softly as she is lifted before settling willingly enough on Lenore's shoulder, her thumb sneaking into her mouth. She's in her footie pajamas and she's obviously had a bath, and Lenore can't help but put her nose against her hair to inhale the clean baby smell of her. It's been a long time since Kim was this small, but Lenore remembers every moment of it. Amanda's nearly three now and heavy in her arms, growing every day.

Kim stands, her dress rustling, and Lenore reaches out with her free hand to cup under her daughter's chin. For all the flack that she's given Bryan over the years for being unable to accept Kim growing up, at times Lenore can hardly believe it herself. "You make the most beautiful bride in the world," she says softly, and Kim's smile grows.

"Thanks," she says, and she smoothes Amanda's hair off her face, and it's startling at times just how much of a _mother _Kim has become. "But you might be the tiniest bit biased."

"It's a fact," she argues with a wistful smile. "You're happy, though? You had a good day?"

"Yeah," Kim says softly, and one look at her face lets Lenore know it's true. "I'm happy."

Hearing that, and knowing that, is as good as breathing hope into the room. It reminds Lenore that of all the wrong turns she's taken, at some point she's made some good choices too, to have a daughter like Kim. And if Kim can take the horrors of the last few years and turn them into joy, maybe things aren't as dark as they seem. Maybe the worst is finally behind them all.

Right now, 'maybe' is enough – 'maybe' is everything.

* * *

**A/N: **There is definitely going to be at least a Part 2 – beyond that, I'm not sure, but Part 2 is already underway, so stay tuned! And despite the hopeful-ish tone of the ending, we're about to take a turn into darker territories, so just be warned about that.

Please take the time to leave a comment if you enjoyed. Thanks in advance!


	2. Part 2

She had never wanted to see Stuart again, and if she is honest with herself, she never thought she actually would. Because if there is anything that she learned from this entire experience, it is that Stuart St. John is first and foremost a coward. Now that he's been released from prison, it would be in his best interest to avoid her at all costs, even as she continues to toy with the benefits and drawbacks of taking out a legal restraining order. And Stuart is, it would seem, always looking out for his best interests, above anyone or anything else.

She had never wanted to see him again, and she thought she never would.

* * *

She has a gun now.

She isn't thrilled about it, because she watches Amanda twice a week and now that she's a toddler, she's into _everything_, but Lenore keeps it in a locked drawer and keeps the key on her person, just so there's no chance of the baby finding it and managing to open the drawer.

She may not love the idea, but she's also never lived alone before in her life. She had gone right from college to being married to Bryan, and in those early days his times away had been much less frequent than they would eventually grow to be. By the time he would be gone for months at a time, Kim had been born, and after they divorced, she always had her daughter in the house. And then she had married Stuart, and so while she's had nights – even weeks – alone before, the fact that there is no one else who will eventually come home is something completely new to her.

Bryan got it for her, showed her how to use it. "I thought it might make you feel better," he had explained, and while his concern had been touching, it had just reminded her how different they are at times. Bryan finds solace in the weight of the revolver, trusts in the decisiveness of a bullet to put things right again, and never thinks that things may be more complicated.

But there is a chance that maybe Bryan has a point. When the knock comes at her door, she assumes it must be Jimmy. Lenore had babysat Amanda that day, and Jimmy had picked her up about an hour ago, and so she thinks he must have forgotten something and doubled back to get it.

The last person she expects to see at her door is Stuart St. John.

She takes an instinctive step back, at the sight of him. Her hand catches the door, to slam it shut, but his foot quickly catches over the landing, jamming it open.

She thinks he says something to her. _Can we talk _or _we should talk _or _I can explain _or something along those lines. She can't be sure, because her blood is pounding in her ears, her heart in her throat, and because she's already whirling away, tearing through the apartment.

She doesn't remember taking out the key, opening the drawer, but she must, because suddenly the gun is in her hands, and he is still trying to _talk _to her. As though there were anything he could say that she would want to hear, as though there were anything that _could _be said.

Perhaps Bryan is right, after all, because she squeezes the trigger once – it hits his shoulder and he yelps and looks at her while he grabs at the spot, shocked and stunned – and then twice, and he falls when this shot lands on his chest. And then Stuart is on the floor and his eyes are still open but seeing nothing, and it really had been that simple – one shot, and then two, and now he's gone from her life forever.

The relief washes over her like a wave, a few moments of bliss, a break in her terror until it returns with a vengeance as the gravity of what she's done hits her. Her arm falls to her side, the weight of the gun feeling impossible to bear at the moment, and for a long moment, she simply stops and stares, and waits for the world to end.

The world keeps spinning, and she's still there, still alive, even if Stuart isn't.

It's silent. It's too quiet, and she gasps, greedily sucking in air. Her head spins anyway, and she sways in her spot. She grabs the doorway between the kitchen and the living room to keep herself from falling, and she watches her knuckles turn white from her desperate grasp.

The police. She has to call the police, or an ambulance even if Stuart's glassy staring eyes tell her it's too late for that…she has to call _someone_…

Her cell phone is on the kitchen table, and she picks it up, and dials.

"Hey," Bryan greets warmly, and she doesn't even realize she's called him until he answers. She can hear the low murmur of the television in the background, the sizzle of something cooking on the stove, the idle buzz of life. "What's up?"

"Bryan," she starts, and her voice sounds strangled to her own ears, barely able to escape around the lump in her throat. It's only when she says his name that she realizes how badly she needs him there, that he is the only person in the world who might be able to set this to rights. "Bryan," she repeats, and tears spring to her eyes. "Something's…happened."

He pauses, and the other side of the line goes quiet – he's moved away, or muted the television, but either way she can practically feel him zeroing in. "What is it?" he asks, his voice direct, cutting through the silence like the slice of a knife. "Is everyone all right?"

_No, _she thinks, _no, everyone is not all right and I don't know what to do, oh god. _"Can you come over here, please?" She can't quite keep her voice from trembling, but she's impressed at how calm she sounds, otherwise.

"Yeah," he agrees immediately, and she can hear the rustles on the other end of the line, can practically see him grabbing a jacket, his keys, to hustle out the door. "Be right there."

She'd feel guilty for worrying him, if all her guilt already hadn't been spent elsewhere.

* * *

Lenore hears the knock on the door, and she's paralyzed, sitting on the kitchen floor.

She knows it must be Bryan, but there's that tiny part of her brain, _what if it's not_, and while she doesn't think it could get any worse than it already is, she doesn't know how she'd explain the body in the entryway to her apartment.

The knock comes again, and she swallows hard, waiting.

The door is still unlocked, and she hears it open. "Lenny?" Bryan's voice comes from the front door.

_Answer_, she orders herself. _Answer. _She licks her dry lips, but can't seem to muster a sound.

She hears his footsteps start, as he comes into the apartment, and then stop again, and her heart seizes in their absence as she knows what he's discovered, what's caused him to pause. "Lenny!" he calls again, sharper this time, louder. There's an edge to his voice now, something that sounds a bit like fear.

"In here," she calls weakly, finally managing to find her voice.

She sees his shoes first, worn sneakers that look yellow against the white tile of her kitchen. She stares at them, unable to draw her eye up.

"Lenny?" Bryan asks, softly, cautiously. "Are you hurt?"

Silently, she manages to shake her head. "I killed him," she rasps. "I _killed _him."

She doesn't realize she's still holding the gun until Bryan slowly kneels beside her and pries it from her trembling fingers. She doesn't realize she's crying until he sets it a few feet away and pulls her over against his shoulder, and she feels how damp his shirt gets where her face is buried against it. And then she holds on for dear life.

* * *

She isn't sure how long they sit there, how long he lets her sob against him, his hand at the back of her head, before he pulls back and cups her face in his hands. "Okay," he says, and there is a steely note to his voice that's become all too familiar lately, one that never heralds good things. His hands are steady on her damp cheeks, while she still shakes all over, as though she could fly apart in a thousand directions. "It's going to be okay. Try and pull it together, Lenny."

She nods, and tries to focus on other things, the way her therapist had suggested in the first few months after the attack when she had been constantly plagued by nightmares. She counts her breaths, and the seconds inbetween. She recounts the morning in her mind, when she took Amanda to the park and pushed her in the baby seat on the swing, and the sounds of her laughter had been all Lenore could hear. She tries to think of anything, anything to distract her from the fact that Stuart is lying dead in her foyer and how could anything possibly be okay?

Bryan stands and she watches as he walks over to her fridge, and pours a glass of orange juice. He eases himself back down on the floor beside her and hands it to her, keeping a steadying hand over hers. "Here," he orders, "drink this. It'll help."

It sounds absurd, but she obediently takes a few sips. Whether it is the sugar or the distraction, she feels the shaking in her limbs begin to abate, though the relief is fleeting when the trembling is replaced with the heavy feeling of dread.

"Okay," Bryan exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. "Want to tell me what happened?"

She shakes her head, still stunned. "There was a knock at the door, and I thought…I thought Jimmy forgot something when he was picking up Amanda, but when I opened the door, there he was." Her eyes sting, and furiously, she blinks the tears back as her voice wavers. "I…I didn't even know what was happening until it was over. It all happened so quickly. I don't even remember getting the gun. One minute he was standing there, and the next…"

"Did he call you and say he was coming over here? Or contact you in any other way? Text, email…"

"No!" she cries out, dismayed at the thought. "I don't even know how he found out where I live. I don't…" her breath catches, and she takes another sip of the juice to distract herself. "I don't know what he was doing here. What was he even doing here?"

"I don't know," Bryan answers, as though she had really expected an answer from him, as though she isn't just talking in circles, trying to keep up with her mind sprinting ahead a thousand miles an hour. He turns, going to stand in the doorway of her kitchen, looking for a long moment at the body that is mercifully just out of Lenore's range of sight. His sharp gaze doesn't waver, not even when he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" she asks, her voice sharp with panic. _The police_, she thinks wildly, despite knowing that Bryan would never do such a thing. Despite knowing that he should, because she doesn't have the courage to do so herself.

"Sam," Bryan answers as he puts his cell phone to his ear. "We're going to need help."

* * *

If Sam is surprised to be called to his closest friend's ex-wife's apartment, he doesn't show it on his face. But nor does he look surprised at the body on the floor, and Lenore thinks that it's probably just that after so many years in the CIA, he's a master at not letting his emotions show on his face.

"Well," is all he says at first, and he nudges the body with his foot. His lip curls the slightest bit, a show of disgust, and Lenore is reminded of the months of therapy that Sam had to undertake to regain full range of motion in his arm. Stuart's plan might have been simple to start – kill the wife, get the insurance money, save his ass – but like a stone thrown in the water, it sent ripples and touched – harmed – so many more people than Lenore could have ever imagined. "That didn't take long."

He's looking at Bryan. "He didn't do this," Lenore says, her voice swaying. "I did it." They're heavy words, ones that could pull her down forever, _me, I did this, it was me. _

Sam's brow furrows briefly as his gaze alights upon her now, but otherwise his expression does not change. He nods slowly, processing this new bit of information, and suddenly, Lenore feels terrible that he is here at all, that he's been dragged into this mess. She's always liked Sam, he's always been nice to her. Bernie and Casey had been polite at the wedding, but she knows they don't like her very much – they had liked her well enough as Bryan's wife, but not as his ex, and she understands that.

Sam, though, the one who had been most caught in the crossfire of the mess her life had become, had been kinder. But she doesn't kid herself – Sam is here because Bryan called him, and Bryan is here because Lenore asked him to come. She's dragging them both down with her because she's too much of a coward to face this alone, and not for the first time, she wishes she were a braver woman.

"I'm sorry," she says, the words rushing from her. "This was a mistake. Bryan shouldn't have called you. _I _shouldn't have called _Bryan_. I…" she breaks off, because the only thing left is to admit what she should have done in the first place – call the police. Take her punishment. And she still isn't strong enough for that. She's still hoping that there's some other way that this all could turn out, desperately trying to find the path that won't just lead to the same end – with her in handcuffs.

Bryan too, most likely at this point. Maybe Sam. And that's her fault.

"Hey, Lenny, you did the right thing," Sam tells her soothingly. "It's going to be all right," he adds, echoing Bryan's words from earlier. They don't sound any more convincing coming from him. Less so, even, as they stand over the body of a man she had killed.

"We have to get rid of it," Bryan says bluntly, and it's startling, hearing him use _it _instead of _him_, meaning _the body _instead of _Stuart_, and yet strangely comforting as well. It makes it easier to detach, makes it seem less real.

At least until she focuses on the rest of his sentence, and then she blurts out, "What?" at the same time that Sam agrees, as easily and casually as if he were agreeing to a round of golf or where to grab dinner.

They both look at her.

"Bryan," she says, still trying to wrap her mind around what he's said, and at the same time…fighting down that little voice in her head, that nags her and asks her if this isn't what she wanted, if she hadn't called Bryan hoping that he could just make the whole problem…go away. "We can't just…cover this up."

"It isn't as tough as you'd think," Sam remarks mildly. "And there have been other people we've had to make…disappear, before."

"Criminals and terrorists," she points out.

Sam shrugs. "He was a criminal, too. And a stupid one, to show up here."

"You want to call the police?" Bryan asks, and he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, offering it out to her. "Want to go to jail, because of him? Go ahead. But I'm not going to do it for you."

She stares at the phone, but she makes no move to take it from him. She knows he's only even offering it out in the first place because he knows she won't call his bluff. "I don't want that," she whispers. Bleakly, she stares at the body on the floor, and she thinks to herself that even if they do this, she'll never forget the sight. Perhaps that will be her penance – maybe she can lie to herself that it is enough.

Bryan nods, puts the phone back in his pocket. "He deserved it," he tells her vehemently, and Lenore wishes she could be as certain as he is. "You didn't do anything wrong, Lenny. You were defending yourself, in your own home."

"Be that as it may, we're still going to need a few supplies," Sam says, rubbing his hands together vigorously – a man ready for his work.

* * *

There is something very methodological in the way that Bryan and Sam work. Clinical. Unsettlingly so.

They're calm, almost casual – to them, it is just one person, one body. Something manageable. It's only her world that is rocked, again split into a before and after. Just like after Paris, just like after Istanbul – every year, it feels like her life is cut into thinner and thinner pieces, and she wonders if it might one day just slip away like ribbons.

Maybe it's because she's always been good at compartmentalizing, that she finds their demeanor so surprising. She's always known the sort of work that Bryan did, during his years with the CIA, but she knew in a vague, abstract sort of way. Bryan always kept quiet on the seedier details, and that had been just fine by her. She had known the man he was – the man he is – at home, with his family, and that had been all that mattered to her.

She knew dozens of men died, in Paris, and then in Istanbul, and she hadn't cared. They had been evil men with ill intentions and she had thought they deserved what they got.

And is Stuart so different, then? Sam and Bryan find no gun, no weapon on his body, but that hadn't been Stuart's way the first time, either. He preferred others to do his dirty work. Surely he knew that seeking her out would be the worst possible decision he could make. Maybe then, he had orchestrated his own end.

Somehow, though, she doubts the police would have seen it that way. 'Shoot first, ask questions later' might be a philosophy Bryan and his friends believed in, but the law says differently.

Jesus, she just wants to be left alone.

The things that Sam brings back with him, the practiced way they wrap and bag the body – the things they think of, like taking his wallet and keys first – they're all stark reminders of the sort of work Bryan and his friends did regularly during their tenure in the CIA.

She never thought she'd need him to use those skills of his, and yet he's had to time and time again. It's ironic, when she's the one who had asked him to leave his job, at the very end of their marriage. It had been a hail mary, a desperate attempt to salvage their relationship. _You have to choose_, she'd told him, and he'd walked away, choosing.

And if he'd chosen their marriage, their family, all those years ago, all three of them would probably be dead by now. Somehow, that realization doesn't make it hurt less, but more – even all these years later. Some wounds, it would seem, never heal.

Unconsciously, her hand flutters up to her neck, her fingers running lightly over the scar that runs across her throat.

When the body is wrapped in black plastic bags, it's easy to forget who it is, or even that it is a body at all. "Grab the other end," Bryan tells Sam, and the body's so thoroughly wrapped that Lenore can't even tell who has the head and who has the feet. "We'll put it in my trunk. Take it to the pier. Lenny," he says, directing her now, "get the door."

* * *

The pier is quiet and deserted by the time they reach it, a steady drizzle having chased even the most ardent of beach lingerers indoors. The waves lap lazily at the shoreline, and beyond that, the ocean is an endless sea of black.

Suddenly, she understand why Sam said it is easier than she'd think to make someone disappear. It seems all too possible that someone could simply vanish, into all that vastness, all that darkness.

Bryan throws the car into park by the docks, and for a long moment they sit in silence, the quiet only broken by the steady swish of the windshield wipers.

"We'll have to borrow a boat," Sam says from the backseat. "We can't dump it right by the pier, it has to go out aways. By the morning the current'll have carried it halfway to Europe." He speaks softly, even though the empty span before them is the only witness to what they're about to do.

"Right," Bryan replies, squinting to see through the rain. Lenore can see him scanning the docks, looking for a suitable candidate, before he turns to her. "Wait here," he instructs.

"No," she instinctively replies, bristling a bit. "This is my fault in the first place, I'm not going to just 'wait here.'" In truth, that is only half the reason – she's afraid, as well, to remain in the car alone in the dark, knowing what Bryan and Sam would be doing, knowing they could be discovered at any moment. It seems only right, seems like the safest choice, that they should continue along this path together. "Besides….we don't have to borrow someone else's boat. Stuart has a boat at this dock."

Bryan stares at her for a long moment. In the darkness, his eyes are shadowed, the lines of his face sharpened. Unintimidated, she doesn't look away. "Fine," he relents, but when she reaches for the door handle, he catches her wrist, stopping her. She flinches, instinctively, and his grip loosens, his thumb pressing soothingly against the thin skin over her pulse point. "That's the last time you're going to say it was your fault," he says seriously, and for a moment, she thinks he's going to give her some ridiculous speech as to why she is innocent, as though she hadn't pulled the trigger of her own volition. But his warning has a different meaning. "He was on parole, which means he has to check in with a parole officer. So we don't have very long before the police come sniffing around. The moment we get back into this car, we don't know what happened to Stuart St. John. You haven't seen him or spoken to him since the trial. You can't talk about it with anyone – not even Kim. Okay?"

Lenore swallows hard, and nods. She's a terrible liar, always has been, but apparently she will have to get better at it, and quickly. Good enough to fool her own daughter, if Kim happened to ask questions.

"Come on," Sam says quietly, opening his door. "Let's do this fast."

She leads the way down the pier, where the boats are docked all in a line, while Sam and Bryan follow, carrying their cargo between them. Stuart's speedboat is small but sleek, and the lack of dust makes Lenore suspect that he'd taken it for a spin or two between when he'd been released and when he'd shown up at her front door. The thought of Stuart going about his life makes the guilt swell in her stomach again for a moment, until she turns her mind to how callously he had tried to snuff _her _life out.

She only hopes he keeps the key in the same spot – and he does, under the floormat by the driver's seat.

She remembers when he bought this boat, six or seven years ago. Things had just started to sour between them, and Stuart's instinct had been to throw money at the problem, to hope that some extravagance would ease their marital discord. It hadn't worked, but she'd liked learning how to drive the boat, the feel of the wind whipping through her hair. And often after they would fight, Stuart would storm away from the house and come home smelling of saltwater, so it would seem it had served as a retreat for him, too.

It's almost poignant. He'd loved this boat, and now it would see him to the bottom of the sea, hopefully for good.

"Careful," Bryan warns when she sits in the driver's seat, puts her hands on the steering wheel. It's been a long time – years – but her muscle memory comes back quickly enough. "We can't leave anything behind." They're wearing gloves, Bryan and Sam, but she isn't.

"You two be careful. I was his wife," she reminds him. "They'd expect to find my fingerprints here."

"You know how to drive it?" Sam asks.

She nods. "Though I've never had to do it at night…in the dark."

"You'll be fine," Bryan tells her, and with a grunt of effort, he starts to crank in the anchor. "Start it," he orders, and with the turn of the key, the engine roars to life, loud enough that Lenore is certain someone will come to investigate.

But no one comes. Even if someone were to hear, this is Los Angeles, a city full of nosy citizens desperate to know but not to intervene. A late night boat ride might stir some curiosity, but if it does, it will likely be forgotten by the morning.

The waves slap loudly against the front of the boat, and Lenore's stomach rises and falls in time, until they've passed the point where the water is breaking.

"Keep going," Sam urges, and her heart beats rapidly in her chest. It's nearly pitch black, and the shoreline is an ever receding stretch of tiny pinpricks of light. The rain falls harder, stinging her face and making it even harder to see, and so she continues to just hold the wheel steady, racing into nowhere.

How different it is, she thinks, than the trips they used to take when Stuart first got this boat, when they had been surrounded by nothing but blue skies and clear water and endless sunshine, and she had thought, foolishly, that maybe things would be all right after all.

It feels as though hours have passed before Bryan finally tells her, "This should be far enough, Lenny."

She can barely see him when she kills the engine. He and Sam are both just dark outlines against a starless sky. The waves slap against the boat, sending it rocking back and forth as Sam bends over the bag on the floor, and though Lenore's never had a problem with seasickness before, for a moment she thinks she might throw up.

_This is it, _she thinks to herself. _This is the last moment, the very last chance to turn back. _

She stays quiet, and watches as Sam slips something – it is too dark to tell what – in the bag, in with the body. It clangs against the bottom of the boat, the heavy thud of metal.

"Where'd that come from?" Bryan asks quietly.

"The rabbit hole," Sam answers. "They won't be able to trace it." He straightens up. "Ready?"

Lenore can't tell if Sam is looking at her or at Bryan, but she feels compelled to answer. "Yes," she says, her voice small but certain.

It's wrong. They're wrong, to be doing what they're doing. But Stuart had been wrong first.

The body barely makes a sound when Bryan and Sam tip it overboard, the splash muffled by the tapping of the rain against the water's surface. She leans over the edge, but there is nothing to see – it is swallowed up by the blackness in an instant, the weight of whatever Sam had slipped inside the bag carrying it down, down to the ocean floor, hopefully to never be found.

A shudder passes through her body, and her fingers curl around the edge of the boat. She stares down at the sea, her head bowed as the rain soaks over her hair, drips down her face.

She feels guilty, the weight of what they've done sitting like a rock in her stomach, so heavy and solid that she feels she could close her fist around it if she tried. She feels afraid, knowing that the police will certainly question her just by virtue of who she is, what she had been to Stuart, what he had done to her.

But most overwhelmingly, she feels – shamefully, blissfully – relieved.

* * *

They drive back to her apartment in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Later they will have to talk but there isn't much, at this point, to say. The rain slows, and then stops, and the windshield wipers squeak until Bryan belatedly, distractedly, turns them off.

She waits to feel some sort of grief, she waits to cry. She's always been, unfortunately, prone to tears, and not just in extreme situations such as this. She's the type who cries when she sees an animal dead by the side of the road, who cries at those Sarah MacLauchlan commercials and Hallmark 'home for the holidays' spots. Surely she would cry now, surely a small bit of her heart is not just afraid, not just horrified, but devastated to have hurt – _killed -_ someone that she once loved.

Nothing comes, and that disturbs her more than almost anything else this evening.

Her therapist asked her once, what she thought drew her to 'this type' of men. Dangerous men, had been the implication, angry men who hurt others.

At the time, Lenore had been insulted, at the notion that Bryan and Stuart were the same 'type' of person, at the suggestion that she intentionally sought out danger. Now, though, she wonders if there isn't a darkness in her that looks for that same darkness in other people.

Maybe they're all the same 'type' after all.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hopefully Part 3 will not be long in coming! There may be a Part 4, as well.

If you enjoyed, please take a moment to leave a review – they really mean the world. Thank you so much!


	3. Part 3

Three years ago, when she had woken up in the hospital two days after she had been rushed there, it had been Stuart who had told her what had happened, and that Bryan was currently evading arrest for attempted murder.

She had immediately jumped to his defense, though the best she could do was put pen to paper as her injury meant that she couldn't yet speak. _Bryan would never hurt me_, she'd written, and Stuart had smiled wryly.

"You're so sure of that?" he had asked her. "After everything he did in Paris and Istanbul? After knowing what he made his career out of? He'd hurt countless people, but not you? How can you know that?"

She hadn't even needed time to think; she'd scratched her pen across the pad of paper, the words cramped in her haste. _Because I know _him.

The look on his face had been inscrutable, and his eyes had looked darker than she'd ever seen them before. He had shaken his head, almost ruefully.

"Maybe you aren't as good of a judge of character as you think," he had told her. 

* * *

The apartment is eerily quiet when they return, the humming buzz of silence almost deafening. The blood is waiting for them, smeared across the tile of the foyer, garish red on sparkling white, and numbly Lenore thinks that it is better than the carpet.

Silently, the three of them look at the remaining mess before them.

"We have to get rid of his car," Sam reminds Bryan quietly. "We can leave it in one of the seedier neighborhoods with the keys in the ignition and it'll be gone within the hour."

Bryan pauses, considers, and then nods before putting a hand briefly to Lenore's back. "I'm going to take the car. Sam'll follow me. Then I'll help you clean this up," he tells her, and her heart leaps into her throat, suddenly panicked at the notion of being alone, in the silence, with the blood as her sole companion.

"You're coming back?" she asks nervously.

"I promise," he replies, and if there is one thing that Lenore knows, it's that Bryan does not promise easily because he makes a habit of keeping them.

But in the meantime, she's alone in the quiet with the mess on the floor, staring down at the reminder of what she's done.

It doesn't seem real. It seems like just another spill, not the blood of a man she had been married to for almost a decade, so her stomach doesn't even turn when she grabs towels from the kitchen and starts cleaning, wiping away the evidence of their guilt.

It soaks through the towels, stains her palms, and she pauses, the weight of it all crushing down on her chest and making it hard to breathe. _There's so much of it_, she thinks wearily, and sitting there by herself it's suddenly all too much. She grabs bleach, and she pours and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until her hands are raw and she isn't sure what is her blood and what is Stuart's blood.

Perhaps it would be a good thing, if she bled a bit on the floor. Just in case. If the police search her place, and it looked as though there were a struggle…

Jesus, it's a sick thought. She's a sick person.

She puts her head to her knees, trying to breathe, but the chemicals choke her. 

* * *

When the floor is sparkling again and her whole apartment smells like bleach, she leaves the bloody towels in a black trash bag and stumbles into the bathroom. Under the garish overhead lights, she looks pale and frightening, clothing stained with blood and dirt and heavy with salt air and seawater and rain. They'll have to go in the bag with the bloody towels, to be gotten rid of quickly and far away. There are threads everywhere, tying them to the crime, and despite their care Lenore cannot help but think one will come back to strangle them.

She turns the faucet of the shower, and sits on the closed toilet seat to wait for the water to warm up. But even as the room fills with steam, she's rendered paralyzed, her head cradled in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees, as she takes deep, steadying breaths.

Stuart is dead, and she feels freed and trapped at the same time. Stuart is dead, and somehow she is both sorry for what she did and not sorry at all. The only thing she is certain of is that she is going to be caught, that despite Bryan and Sam's care, it will unravel and she'll spend the rest of her life in prison. She doesn't have friends in high places, the way Stuart did, and she can't imagine that she'll be let off with a slap on the wrist the way he had been. Not when a steady stream of ill luck seems to have been following her – their entire family – for the last eight years.

There's no way they'll get away with it.

There is a knock on the door, and her head snaps up, startled from her thoughts. "Lenny?" she hears Bryan's voice from the other side, slightly muffled through the wood.

"Come in," she answers, and the knob turns.

He opens the door, and he looks surprised to see her there, sitting on the closed toilet seat, still fully dressed in her damp and dirty clothes. He's clean and changed, wearing a plain grey button up and a fresh pair of jeans, and she wonders how long she's been sitting there, that he had time to get rid of the car and then go home and shower before returning.

He has the black trash bag in his hand, and he holds it up. "For your clothes," he explains, and she nods briefly, drawing her lip between her teeth.

He hesitates at the doorway, obviously torn between leaving to give her privacy and coming inside. Finally he crosses the threshold, closing the door behind him and tossing the bag on the floor. He slowly kneels down in front of her, his hands resting on the seat on either side of her legs, not touching and yet steadying all the same. "You didn't have to clean the foyer on your own. I would have helped you," he says quietly.

"I know," she replies softly. She focuses her gaze on the wall behind him, just to the left of his head, unable to meet his eye. "I didn't want to look at it anymore."

"Hey," he says. His thumb brushes her knee lightly, just beside a dark stain on her jeans. She isn't sure if it's oil from the boat or blood from her floor, and her stomach flip flops. "Look at me, Lenny."

Reluctantly she drags her eyes to his. "It's going to be okay," he tells her, and he's looking at her so earnestly that it would be all too easy to believe him, to fall into the comfort of his honesty and certainty. But she doesn't remember the last time things really, truly turned out all right – there are breaks in the storm, but the last few years have been a hurricane that they've barely weathered. And this, she suspects, may be the final breaking point.

She glances down at her hands, clenched in fists in her lap to try and quell the trembling in her fingers, trying to still the tremors that send her whole body quivering. It's as long each nerve ending has a mind of its own, vibrating in time to the rapid beating of her heart. "Then why can't I stop shaking?" she asks.

Bryan puts a hand on top of hers, gently working her clasped fist open to lace their fingers together. His grip is steady as a rock, his face calm and voice even, as though nothing has happened at all. "It's just adrenaline," he explains. "It'll pass."

"I never thought I would…kill someone," she whispers. She keeps her eyes on their entwined hands, running her thumb absently over the back of his hand, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat that seems to threaten to choke her. "I never thought I'd have it in me. I don't even know who I am anymore. I feel less and less like me every year."

With his free hand, he reaches out and cups beneath her chin, forcing her gaze upward. It's hard to look at him, at those blue eyes that seem to pierce right through her. She's too raw, frayed at the edges, and all she wants to do is look away. All she wants to do is run away, to stay where she is, to hide beneath the blankets and never come out. She wants to be alone, she wants to beg him to stay. She doesn't know what the hell she wants, because it's everything and nothing all at the same time.

"We've all changed," he tells her. "We've had to. But your family still knows who you are. This doesn't define you." The corner of his lip quirks up in a hint of a self-deprecating smile. "Take it from someone who's had to ask that question a lot."

She nods, taking a deep breath and releasing it with a shudder. "Will you stay here tonight?" she whispers, blinking tears from her lashes. "I don't want to be alone." She doesn't realize how true that is, until she says it out loud. It's ironic, that she once thought she was better off alone, and now the idea terrifies her. What would she have done, if she truly were alone in the world and had no one to call after she fired that gun? For all that she's felt adrift, isolated, for the last few years, she hadn't hesitated to pick up that phone. She had known that Bryan, of course, would come.

"I can do that," he replies quietly, and her heart swells with relief.

"Thank you," she says, her voice wavering, and she puts a hand to his cheek, feeling the prickle of stubble beneath her fingertips. Her hands smell of bleach and there is blood in the grooves of her knuckles, but she feels the way he leans into her touch regardless, his fingers gently encircling her wrist near his jawline in silent acknowledgment.

"I'll let you get cleaned up," he says softly, but she doesn't pull her hand back and he doesn't move from his spot on the floor.

She traces the lines of his face absently – the creases at the corners of his eyes, the lines at his mouth, all reminders of the time that's passed, how old they've gotten. She's known him now for longer than she's not known him. There are years and years of history between them – together, apart, and whatever strange pattern they've fallen into now, forever too close and holding each other at arm's length at the same time.

It's exhausting. But it's almost impossible to think that it could ever be different, when she's felt in such stasis the last three years, just muddling through day after day to try and make it to the other side. She survived that day three years ago, but sometimes she wonders if she might as well have died, for all that she's lived since then.

Stuart is dead now, dragged down to the bottom of the ocean, but somehow she still feels like he won, like he stole something precious and irreplaceable from her. Her heart is still beating but sometimes she feels as though he did kill her, that she's a ghost, a silent observer as the world keeps spinning around her.

"Do you ever still think about us?" She asks suddenly, the words spilling from her almost beyond her control. Her eyes burn, and Bryan's face swims before her. She blinks hard, and her voice wavers. "Do you ever think about me?"

His brow furrows, obviously surprised at the abruptness of her question. Gently, he pulls her hand away from his face to hold it between both his hands, his grip warm. "Of course I do," he tells her softly.

"I feel like we waited years for the timing to be right. Or at least better. But I don't think that's ever going to happen," she whispers, voice raw. He winces a bit, almost imperceptibly, but his hand goes to her jaw, thumb brushing against her cheek, and it's only when he swipes a tear away that she realizes she's crying again, and that just makes the tears fall faster.

"Okay…" he says slowly, and he wipes at her cheek again. "It's okay. You don't have to cry." The tenderness in his voice, in his touch, is enough to make her heart hurt, and she shakes her head.

"No, I meant…I don't want to wait anymore. I don't think there is going to ever be a better time. Ever since this…" she touches the scar at her neck lightly, her thumb brushing against the raised ridge, "time's just felt borrowed." Her voice catches, "And I'm tired…I'm so tired of not feeling. Of telling myself it's better that way. I just don't want it to be too late. For me. For us."

Bryan is silent for a long moment, his thumb sliding from her cheek to brush against her lips, and for a moment, she thinks she's pushed too far, asked too much. After what happened to her, they had never revisited their conversation in his kitchen, and maybe she had been right in thinking that they had waited too long, that their chance had passed them by. "I'm sorry," she starts, instinctively backtracking, her voice still thick.

"No," he interrupts, his voice soft. "No, no, don't be sorry."

"it's all right if you don't…want the same thing, anymore," she rushes to add. "It's been a long time, I know. And a lot has happened."

"No, it isn't that," he replies. He huffs out a breath, his eyebrows raising before he adds empathetically, "Believe me, it isn't that." He gently pushes her hair, knotted and damp as it is, behind her ear. "But a lot's…happened, tonight. And I don't want to…take advantage."

She laughs, the sound catching in her throat around the lingering tears. "I called you tonight to ask you to help me move a body. I think it could be argued that I'm the one taking advantage." She puts her hand to her mouth, horrified. "I can't believe I just said that. I can't believe I made a joke about what happened," she murmurs, almost more to herself than to him. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

The corner of Bryan's mouth turns up slightly, a hint of a wistful smile. "You're coping," he explains, his thumb still running absently over her cheek, "however you can." He leans towards her, and she meets him halfway, and he kisses her softly, sweetly, briefly, before resting his forehead against hers. "It isn't too late," he assures her. "But this doesn't feel like the best way to start off."

He's right. She knows he's right, and yet it stings anyway, like an electric shock to her raw edges, and she nods, but instinctively draws back, dropping her gaze to the floor. "It never is," she says quietly, ruefully, and he winces.

"Lenny…" he starts, and this time she shakes her head.

"It's fine," she says, giving him a faint smile. "I'm fine. I know you're right." She stands up, and he rises from the floor, still looking uncertain – still looking at her with concern. "I'm going to hop in the shower now," she tells him. Suddenly the room feels too small, too claustrophobic, and she just needs a moment to herself.

He holds her gaze for a long moment, but ultimately he listens and leaves, because that has always been the sort of person he is. She wonders how she can feel so close to him one moment, and the next feel as though there are miles between them they will never bridge.

She steps into the shower, and watches as the water slowly washes her clean. 

* * *

She wakes up alone in bed in the next morning, exhausted and disorientated. Every muscle in her body aches, almost as though she has the flu, and for a moment she debates about just staying in bed. Maybe if she stays long enough, this whole matter will disappear, and Stuart will be forgotten completely. If only things were that easy.

The shades are drawn over the window, casting the room in darkness despite the fact that her alarm clock reads just after eight in the morning. As she sits up, the last vestiges of the nightmares that had plagued her the night before tease at the corners of her mind. She's no stranger to bad dreams, but this one had been new, different – and not in the way she had expected. She hadn't dreamed about the weight of the revolver in her hand, or the rock of the boat beneath her feet.

Instead, she had dreamt of a van. Of a van, and the rough bump of the road beneath her, and her hands bound behind her back. And of how she had thought if she could just reach her cell phone in her pocket, she could call someone – the police, Bryan, _anyone_ – and things would be all right. And then they had found her phone, and taken it from her, laughing.

She had dreamt of strange faces, and of the slow-creeping realization that if they hadn't bothered to blindfold her, it was because they knew she wouldn't survive long enough to later identify them.

It's hard to breathe, then, her throat constricting with residual panic, and she pushes the sheets away almost violently, swinging her legs off the mattress and crossing to the window, throwing open the shades and lifting the glass. The air outside is hot and thick with humidity, but the sunlight is enough to help return her heartrate to normal, her breathing ragged but slowing.

_It was just a dream_, she tells herself, even knowing at the same time that it hadn't been. Her fingers go to her neck, brushing over the scar at her throat and settling against her pulse point, feeling it thump steadily against her fingertips.

_You're alive_, she thinks, and that, at least, is true. 

* * *

It's strange, how utterly _normal_ her apartment looks. The foyer is pristine, the black trashbags from the night before are missing. The windows are thrown open and the smell of bleach has faded in the morning breeze.

She can hear the sound of plates clinking in the kitchen, and it's the first time in a long time that strange, unexpected noises have brought her anything other than panic. Belting her robe over her nightgown, she follows the sounds to find Bryan cooking something on the stove, his clothes rumpled from having slept in them the night before.

She can feel any residual hurt or awkwardness from the night before wash away with a rush of relief at finding him still there. "Hi," she says softly, leaning against the doorway.

He turns quickly, his face brightening, eyebrows lifting. "Hey," he replies, and she wanders into the kitchen to sit at the table.

He comes to sit beside her, sliding a cup of coffee against the table to her. She accepts it with a grateful, if weary smile, wrapping her hands around it, feeling the warmth soak into her palms. They sit in silence for a long moment, but it's a comfortable sort of quiet, one that makes her want to fall back asleep.

"You look tired," he says finally, quietly. His fingertips brush against her knuckles, as though unsure if his touch would be welcome. She turns her hand on the counter so that her palm is facing up, and his fingers lace familiarly through hers.

"Yeah," she agrees on an exhale. "I, um, didn't sleep very well." She hesitates, uncertain if she should continue or leave it be. Certainly there is a myriad of reasons she wouldn't have slept well the night before, but as always, she finds herself wanting to confide in him. "I think…I think I'm starting to remember things," she starts uncertainly, and Bryan frowns, obviously puzzled.

"Remembering…what things?" he asks, and she looks down at her coffee, distracting herself with stirring a scoop of sugar in. It tastes bitter, regardless.

"What happened to me," she finally confesses quietly. "Things from after I got to the gas station that night."

He exhales heavily, and his fingers close around hers, holding tight. "Do you want to…talk about it?" he asks uncertainly, and she avoids his gaze while she shakes her head, not wanting to see the concern there.

"No," she replies softly, and she chances a look at his face. "I don't want to remember anything," she confesses rawly. "I used to hate not knowing, but now…" He smiles sadly at her.

"I don't want you to, either," he agrees, and they lapse back into silence – heavier now, weighted down by bad memories. "I made some eggs, if you're hungry," he finally adds awkwardly, nodding towards the stove.

"No," she replies, and she takes a slow sip of her coffee instead. "Thank you. I didn't wake up with much of an appetite."

He lets out a huff of a laugh, one that sounds like more of a sigh than anything resembling amusement. "I can understand that," he answers, sounding as though he is speaking more to himself than to her. But then he looks at her closely, studying her face, and she resists the urge to look away. "Why don't you come over for dinner tonight?" Bryan suggests. "I'll call Kim and Jimmy, we can fire up the grill."

Her natural inclination has always been to decline, to keep herself apart rather than intrude. But it hasn't worked for her thus far, and she's so tired of being alone. "Okay," she says softly. "That sounds nice."

His face breaks into a smile when she acquiesces, and he squeezes her hand. "I have the bags in my car, to get rid of," he tells her quietly. "Will you be okay if I head out?"

The idea of being left alone is less terrifying in the light of day, with the sunshine streaming through the windows. "I'll be fine," she says honestly, and he leans over, kissing her warmly on the cheek.

"You will," he agrees. "You're okay, Lenny. Try and get some rest," he adds, running his thumb over the back of her hand before releasing it. 

* * *

Rest, she finds, is easier said than done, and just before noon she decides to go for a run, hoping that if she wears out her body, maybe she'll exhaust her mind as well, enough that she'll be able to catch up on a bit of sleep before dinner.

But when she steps outside, sneakers laced and headphones draped over her neck, there is a white box waiting on her front step. She pauses and cautiously, as though she expects something to leap out at her, she brings it inside to put on the kitchen table, and pulls back the tape to open it.

She pulls a vase out, filled to bursting with peach roses – some closer to yellow, some closer to red, all beautiful – her favorite, in fact, all the colors of the sunset. The vase is crystal, and the sunlight coming through the window catches on it and sends rainbows dancing over her counter.

And she is frozen in horror at the sight.

Stuart had often bought her flowers. He had bought them for Kim, too – daisies and sunflowers and tulips, but he'd always bought the roses for Lenore, always from the same floral shop. She's angry at herself, that she didn't immediately recognize the box – but then, Stuart had usually brought the flowers home with him; deliveries had been saved for when he had been away on business.

With trembling fingers, she plucks the card from among the buds and opens it, her heart thudding erratically against her chest. There is only one line written on the card, but that alone is enough to make her stomach heave and her knees buckle so that she collapses into the chair. '_To new beginnings – S.'  
_  
It's like seeing a ghost from beyond the grave, and before she knows what she's doing, she's torn the card into pieces, as though she could erase it so easily. But the message is forever imprinted on her mind, just waiting for her to close her eyes, a cruel twist of fate on a morning when she had been feeling almost hopeful. Her hands are shaking as the pieces slip through her fingers, falling to the table like snowflakes._  
_

_You're okay, _she reminds herself, putting a hand to her heart, feeling it race against her palm. She's alive and Stuart's dead and no reminders can change that. And slowly, as her panic begins to abate, it is replaced with a white hot anger.

Had he really thought it would be so simple? Had prison warped his mind so completely that he had thought she would ever want to hear from him again, much less think that she would ever forgive him? She had been shocked to discover how little she had turned out to even know Stuart, but now she is further stunned to see how little he had known her, in turn. She's always been good at holding a grudge, and this is by far the most justified one of her life.

There's at least two dozen roses, and the vase probably cost a pretty penny, too. She wonders why the hell he would think sending lavish gifts would help his case, when money had been the root of his scheme to kill her in the first place. Where is he even getting the cash for such a purchase, without her generous life insurance policy at his disposal?

The vase is in her hands next, and fueled by her anger, she lifts it over her head and then brings her hands down hard, watching it shatter on the hard tile of her floor.

On the ground, the shards of crystal twinkle like diamonds, and she has to look away. 

* * *

It is at Bryan's apartment three weeks later that the news report comes on the television.

Lenore and Kim are cleaning up the kitchen when a familiar face catches her eye on the television in the other room. Lenore drops the sponge she's holding, moving closer to listen as they show Stuart's picture, as the newscaster reads on in a drone how he is a former businessman, released recently from prison, at large but not considered a public threat.

Of course he wouldn't be considered a public threat – just a private one, just to their family.

She stares at the television, and Stuart's picture stares back at her. The news report makes it sound like a parole violation, not a missing person case and certainly not a murder, but the fact of the matter is that other people know now that something is amiss. Certainly once the police started to investigate, they would realize…

"Are you okay, Mom?" Kim asks, her voice laden with concern. "You look really pale."

Suddenly, all the eyes on the room are on her. Only Amanda is oblivious, methodically taking Cheerios out of her little cup one at a time and lining them up on the coffee table.

Lenore touches the back of her hand to her cheek; her skin feels cool and clammy. "I'm fine," she says, and her voice sounds strangled and unconvincing even to her own ears. She forces a small smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "It's just…you know. Bad memories."

Jimmy nods distractedly, turning his attention back to the television as the story changes to local sports, but Kim doesn't look away, a frown tugging at the corners of her lips. Lenore instead looks away, avoiding her daughter's piercing gaze – one that at the moment, she'd swear Kim inherited directly from her father. "No use worrying about it," Lenore says with forced cheer, and she pivots on her heel, heading back to the kitchen.

To her chagrin, Kim follows, silently taking her place beside Lenore at the sink. "I hope he's dead," she says vehemently, and instinctively, Lenore flinches at just how close she's hit to the truth of the matter.

"I don't care what's happened to him either way," she replies, trying to keep her voice light and breezy, and failing miserably at the attempt. She can feel Kim's eyes on her again, burning into the side of her face, as though she could read all of her secrets there.

"I feel like you're keeping something from me," Kim says quietly, and Lenore ducks her head, letting her long hair fall in front of her face as she bends back over the sink. She doesn't respond for a long moment, and so Kim continues, her voice wistful. "You know, Dad was gone so much when I was growing up, for a long time it was just you and me. You always told me we'd never have secrets from each other."

That alone is almost enough to crack Lenore; it cuts right through to her heart. It is only when she hears the baby laugh from the other room that she remembers why it's so important to keep Kim free and clear of this mess, and she forces a smile on her face. "Honey, everything is fine. I promise," she says, but her voice doesn't sound convincing even to her own ears.

"Is it Dad?" Kim asks, lowering her voice to a near whisper. "Did he have something to do with…"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lenore cuts her off, more brusquely than she intended.

Kim sighs, grabbing the dish towel to continue drying. "Fine," she says, letting the subject drop. "But just so you know, Mom, you've never been a good liar." 

* * *

Kim is quiet and distant for the rest of the evening, and Lenore catches her watching her at several points throughout the evening, as though she expects to see the truth written on her face if she just looks hard enough. When Kim and Jimmy get ready to leave with a sleepy Amanda, Kim looks at her mother with disappointed eyes, and Lenore realizes how much harder it will be to keep such a secret from her daughter than she initially thought. Her first priority is still to keep Kim and her little family safe and clear of this whole mess, but she hadn't thought that her daughter would suss out the truth so quickly – that Lenore knows more than she is letting on. All she can do now is hope that Kim lets it go, but her daughter has always been as stubborn as she and Bryan both.

No sooner than the door has closed behind them but the next hour of local news starts, and Stuart's picture flashes on the screen again. Silently, Bryan grabs the remote and flicks the television off, and they look at each other for a long moment.

"What do we do?" she asks finally, in a hushed tone. She sinks down to sit on the couch, her legs suddenly feeling too weak to support her.

"Nothing," Bryan replies immediately, firmly, sitting beside her so he can look her in the eye. "We do nothing."

She rubs her arms absently, trying to smooth down the goosepimples that have raised on her skin. Doing nothing might be their only option, but it feels an awful lot like they are waiting for the teeth of the trap of snap around them. And she's so tired of waiting, of feeling at the mercy of circumstances beyond their control.

"It's, um, getting late. I should go, too," she says, but she doesn't rise from her seat, doesn't make a move to gather her things.

"Don't go," Bryan protests. He holds up the half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table with a rueful smile. "Help me finish this. I think we both need it." He reaches over, putting his hand on top of hers. "Stay," he repeats, more seriously now, and then adds hastily, "if you want to."

She smiles back faintly, and pushes her empty glass across the coffee table. "Kim asked me if you had anything to do with Stuart's disappearance," she says in a hushed tone as he pours her some wine, as though their daughter might be listening just outside the door.

He raises his eyebrows briefly but then shrugs with a bit of a sigh. "She won't be the last," he predicts, and he empties the rest of the bottle into his own glass. "If it's made it to the news, I'm surprised the police haven't already come knocking on my door."

She swallows hard. She hadn't even considered the fact that the police would likely look at Bryan before they even looked at her, and she had pulled him into her mess regardless. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this," she murmurs. A new thought occurs to her, and her stomach rolls. "Jesus, Bryan, you put the _body _in your _car_. If they get a warrant…"

"It won't come to that," he assures her. "Not without a body, without a murder weapon. And if it does…we'll handle it as it comes."

"We shouldn't have to handle it," she snaps, frustrated at herself and overwhelmed by what she's caused with her lack of foresight. "I should have to handle it. This is my fault. It was my _fault_." Her fault, yes, that Stuart is dead, but more than that, her fault that Bryan could be implicated at all.

"Would you stop with that?" he snaps back, his voice laden with frustration. "It doesn't matter, Lenny. You didn't pull me into this." He smiles, a bit darkly, and asks challengingly, "Do you really think I wouldn't have taken care of him, if he hadn't shown up that night? You were never going to have to do this on your own." His tone softens slightly. "You aren't alone in this, Lenny. You never were."

"You did it on purpose," she realizes, thinking back to that night and morning – the body, the gun, the trash bags of bloody clothes and towels, realizing that of course Bryan didn't take them on oversight. She feels stupid for even thinking that he might have, when everything else had been so calculated, so practiced. She doesn't know if that makes her feel better or worse, if she wants to hit him or kiss him. She settles for the latter, her hand fisting in the front of his shirt, so that she can feel the beat of his heart against her knuckles, her other hand going to his jaw. He kisses her back, and the hesitance she had felt the last two times she had kissed him is missing, his lips soft and warm against hers.

She pulls him closer, hand slipping from the front of his shirt around his side, beneath his arm, to rest on his back, and he draws away briefly, his fingertips brushing over her lips. "Wait," he starts, and she feels something inside her crack. _If he doesn't want me now, he never will_, she thinks angrily, and she tries to keep the hurt from her face, to keep some small semblance of her pride.

"Jesus, Bryan," she says, her voice heavy with frustration as she pulls back. "I can't do this anymore. I don't want to 'wait' anymore. I've been…all I've been doing for the last five years is just waiting. Waiting to feel something again, waiting to feel like I'm _moving _and not just treading water. I don't want to wait anymore."

Bryan hesitates, his brow furrowing. "Err…" he start awkwardly, "I just meant…" He leans over and puts the wine glass he had been holding in his hand down on the table, and Lenore feels her face flush red.

She covers her face with her hands. "Well," she says, the sound muffled against her palms, her cheeks hot to the touch, "this is embarrassing."

She hears him chuckle softly, and then he pulls her hands away, holding them between his own. "You were right," he tells her softly. "There might never be a good time. But at least there's time at all." His fingers stroke over the back of her hands. "I didn't meant to hurt you," he adds seriously, and she knows he is referring not to the misunderstanding tonight, but their conversation a few weeks ago, that awful night.

"I know," she says, and even as she says it, she realizes how ridiculous it is that he should have to say that at all. Their road has been anything but an easy one, and there's been plenty of hurt on both sides, but she knows Bryan would never intentionally hurt her. And as she's learned in recent years, there are very few people in her life that she can say that about. "I know," she repeats again, more fiercely this time, and she leans in to kiss him again. His hands, free now, slip around her and she marvels at how easy it feels, how natural, how familiar even after all these years. There's something about it that feels like coming home after a long time away.

His lips brush her jaw, drop to her shoulder, and a spark of desire flares low in her belly. It's something she hasn't felt in so long that she almost doesn't recognize it at first, but more than that, it's thrilling. Yet she flinches back instinctively when his lips move to her neck and brush against the scar at her throat, and he pulls away, his eyes full of concern. "I'm sorry," she says, embarrassed at her skittishness, at the reminder that things will never be completely normal, that she still doesn't feel comfortable in her own skin.

Bryan shakes his head, "_I'm _sorry," he corrects, and she puts a hand to the nape of his neck when he kisses her softly on the mouth again, her fingers brushing the ends of his hair. "Stay here tonight," he suggests quietly, the words a breath against the corner of her mouth. His fingers slip beneath the hem of her blouse, resting warmly on the small of her back, and she closes her eyes.

She turns her face and smiles softly against his neck, feeling the beat of his pulse against her lips. "I can do that," she answers, echoing his response to her same request a few weeks ago.

She's surprised, a bit, at how easy it is to acquiesce, to finally take a step over that line they've spent years toeing. But maybe it is beyond time to admit that they're already in over their heads. 

* * *

Part 4 will be forthcoming! I've given up trying to predict how many parts this will end up being. It turned out bigger than I expected. XD

Comments are greatly appreciated and loved! Thanks in advance and thanks for reading!


	4. Part 4

With no new information to offer the public, Stuart's disappearance fades from the evening news, but Lenore learns all too quickly that though the local media has moved on, it is not forgotten in the eyes of the LAPD.

Bryan is wrong, and they come for her first.

Truthfully, they don't come so much _for _her as _to _her, but that distinction doesn't do much to calm her nerves when she finds Inspector Dotzler on the other side of her door, another officer that she does not recognize at his side, and a polite smile on his face.

"Ms. St. John," he says, inclining his head slightly in greeting. "I'm sorry to stop by unexpectedly. But I have a few questions I was hoping you could help me out with." She doesn't move, and she doesn't speak, her hand frozen on the door, and Dotzler raises his eyebrows. "May I come in?" he asks after a long beat.

_In, _she thinks, and she tries to breathe – _in _is a good sign, it must be a good sign. He wants to ask her questions but surely if he suspected something, he would have asked her down to the station, rather than question her in her apartment. "Yes, yes, of course," she says, her voice strained with the effort to seem light and unaffected, and she stands aside to let the inspector and his partner in.

She sits on one couch and they sit on the other, the coffee table between them, and even if it technically isn't, it certainly feels like the start of an interrogation, the battle lines drawn. She looks across at them, sitting side by side, and she can't help but feel outnumbered, already out of her depth.

She wishes desperately that Bryan were there.

Dotzler leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and looks at her. His eyes remind her of Bryan's – not in color, but in the way that they seem to look right through people, as though they could tell her every secret at a glance. Piercing eyes, but pensive, too. She'd liked him, at least as much as she'd liked any of the detectives swarming around her three years ago, trying to unravel a mess that she couldn't even remember. He had struck her as smarter, more analytical than all the others who had taken one glance at the scenario – ex-wife found with her throat cut in her ex-husband's bed – and hadn't bothered to look any further, assuming Bryan's guilt at face value.

God, she wishes any other detective had been put on this case. If any of the other buffoons she had encountered had been put in charge, she expects they would have looked at Stuart's history and shrugged their shoulders and called it a day. Certainly Stuart had made a number of enemies in his dirty business dealings, enemies he could not repay without her life insurance policy. It doesn't matter that Malankov is dead; in those types of organizations, when one head is cut off three more take its place.

"We're sorry to bother you at home," Dotzler starts, and his voice is kind, soothing, the way he had spoken to her back in the hospital, and she doesn't know if that's a good sign or if she's being lulled into a false sense of security. "And we're even more sorry to dredge up things I'm sure you'd rather leave in the past. But I'm sure you've heard by now that Stuart St. John is missing."

Lenore looks down at her hands. Even now, three years later, it's still odd to see them bare, without the engagement and wedding bands. She folds them neatly in her lap, hoping they'll take her discomfort as normal given the subject. "The news report said that he'd violated his parole." There – that had been true and therefore had come easily enough, and she decides the best way to lie is by omission. Perhaps then she can get away with it.

Dotzler exchanges a glance with the officer at his side, and her heart skips a beat, trying to decipher what such a look could mean. She squeezes her hands into fists, and she can feel her palms sweat- _we've only just begun and they already have me a wreck_, she thinks angrily. "We don't believe that to be the case any longer," Dotzler replies finally, and she can tell he's choosing his words carefully. It's as though they are starting a chess match, and Lenore has always been a hopeless player. "There are no sightings, his family says he hasn't contacted them, and his credit cards are untouched. At this point, we're considering it a missing person's case."

He falls silent, and for a long moment, the only sound that breaks the terse silence is the steady clicking of the clock on the wall. "Ms. St. John," he finally starts again, and Lenore can feel his gaze on her, but she keeps her eyes on her hands, certain that her face will betray her. "Have you heard from your husband since his release?"

At that, her eyes snap up. "_Ex_-husband," she clarifies, and the iciness in her voice surprises even her. "And I use my maiden name now. I don't go by St. John anymore."

To his credit, Dotzler looks sheepish, embarrassed, and he winces. "My apologies," he says, his voice gentle, and it's that tone that leads her to think that perhaps whatever his purpose in coming here, it isn't because he suspects her. He's remorseful; he hadn't been trying to get a rise out of her. "Ms…?"

"Thompson. But just Lenore is fine," she answers, and she feels some of the tension in her shoulders relax, her hands unfurl and rest open-palmed against her knees. "And no, I haven't heard from him. Why would I?"

The two detectives across from her exchange a look, and Dotzler opens a folder in his lap. "Well, it would seem that in the weeks before he disappeared, he was very interested in speaking with you."

He hands the documents over, and Lenore's stomach sinks as she flips through them, her fingers trembling as they trace over the pages. There's a long email chain back and forth, between Stuart and a private investigator he had obviously employed. She had wondered, of course, how Stuart had found her, but she hadn't really stopped to _think _about it. There are copies of documentation – her new car registration, her address highlighted at the top, a snapshot of her getting into the car in front of her apartment building. In the photo she's looking in the opposite direction, completely unaware she's being followed, and it makes her sick, makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Absently she raises a hand to smooth them down, and she's unable to repress a little shudder of horror. For a moment, she's flung three years in the past, and the worst is knowing that her fears haven't been unfounded in all this time inbetween. _Will it ever be over_? she wonders, and she bows her head, her hair falling like a curtain on either side of her face.

"The last charge on his credit card was a flower arrangement to be delivered here," Dotzler tells her gently. "Did you receive it?"

"No," she says, the lie flying out of her mouth before she can think the better of it, and she watches the two detectives seated across from her exchange doubtful looks. "I mean….I did, but I didn't know…I wasn't sure where they came from," she corrects herself weakly, but the damage is already done. She watches as Dotzler sits back against the cushions of the couch, his fingers toying with a rubber band around his wrist before he steeples them and fixes her with a steady gaze.

"I have to wonder why you didn't get a restraining order," he says bluntly. "First your ex-husband is released from prison, then you get a package in the mail from him. Why not take the precaution?"

"For a restraining order, I'd have to tell him where I lived, and that was something I'd rather not do," she snaps in return, bristling a bit at the unspoken accusation. "Not that it seems to have made a difference in the end."

He raises an eyebrow. "And you didn't think that alone was a reason to call the police? That it might be relevant information?"

Lenore falls silent, flushed and nervous, but Dotzler does not push further. The clock ticks loudly in the background but her heart seems to pound even harder in her chest. She drums her fingers against her knee in time, her body a restless ball of energy. "But then, I guess after that messy investigation three years ago, the police wouldn't be the first ones you'd think of," he allows softly, and she looks up, puzzled that he would offer her such an out. But he does not leave her wondering for long; it's quickly obvious what sort of trap he is laying when he adds casually – too casually, "You and Mr. Mills, do you still speak often?"

_Of course_, she thinks, furious at the insinuation, _of course they think yet again that it all comes back to Bryan_. "He has nothing to do with this!" she bursts out, her guilt making her anger all the more volatile. "But please, drag his name through the mud a second time, that's obviously the fairest thing to do."

He smiles wanly, and Lenore feels as though she's fallen right into the waiting trap. "I'll take that as a yes, then. And believe me, no one is interested in dragging anyone through the mud," Dotzler counters softly, leaning forward and fixing her with his honest gaze. "And between you and me, if something did happen to Stuart St. John, I don't consider it a great tragedy. But passing that sort of judgement isn't my job, deciphering the facts is my job. So you can see why, given your history, I would have a few questions for both you and Mr. Mills."

Lenore takes a deep breath, releasing it on a shudder, trying to keep her voice and face composed. "I don't know what happened to Stuart," she says – she lies, lies, lies, "and I don't care." That, at least, she reassures herself, is the truth, perhaps more than anything else she's said. No matter how they might have been, once, he had turned into someone she couldn't recognize. She hadn't _wanted _to kill him, but she couldn't deny even to herself that knowing that he is gone is a relief.

Dotzler looks down at his notebook, his lips pursed in thought before he looks back up at her. "Can you tell me why your address was on the GPS history of his car?"

She can't stop her sharp intake of breath, and she prays that Dotzler didn't hear it. _They found the car_, she thinks hazily, and she can hear the blood pounding in her ears as she desperately tries to remember what, if anything, they had left in Stuart's car that terrible night, if anything even more damning than his GPS history could lead back to them. _They found the car_. "I…I don't know," she says, and her voice comes out as a nervous squeak. She clears her throat, tries to regain her composure. "I…well…from what you've shown me, he was following me…" she gestures to the photos on the table, pointing only briefly before folding her trembling hands back in her lap.

There is an intensity in Dotzler's eyes that frightens her, and she realizes with a sinking feeling that she hasn't convinced him, hasn't fooled him. He can tell just by looking at her face that she isn't telling everything she knows and now he's left to determine how best to trip her up. "Are you sure about that?" he asks her quietly, still with that undertone of sympathy. "He sent you flowers, are you sure he didn't approach you, try and patch things up?"

"No!" she exclaims, but her voice is high-pitched and panicky. She clutches the cushions of the couch on either side of her legs, as though that will keep her anchored, despite the fact that all she wants to do is run away.

"It isn't too hard to imagine how _that _would play out," he adds, as though she hasn't spoken at all, and all she can do is stare, trying desperately to think of a rebuttal that won't sound so paper thin. How is it, she wonders, that Bryan finds this sort of thing so very easy, when for her it is next to impossible? She looks away, as though that will make it easier, but she can feel Dotzler's gaze bright on her face.

She is saved by the scrape of a key in the lock and the turn of the doorknob. "Mom?" Lenore hears Kim call from the door as she lets herself in, as per her usual custom. She has Amanda on her hip and her bag slung over her other shoulder, and she freezes in the entryway when she realizes that her mother is not alone. Lenore watches as her eyes narrow as she studies and processes the scene before her – the detectives seated on the couch, the papers spread across the coffee table. "What's going on?"

Grateful for the distraction, Lenore nearly leaps up from the couch, crossing to Kim and taking Amanda into her arms. "These detectives had a few questions," she says, settling the toddler on her hip before shooting Dotzler a pointed look. "But they were just about finished."

Dotzler looks briefly surprised, and then his lips curl up in a knowing smirk at his abrupt dismissal, but gamely, he begins to gather his things. "Yes, I think we've taken enough of your time," he says, and Lenore feels a rush of relief wash over her as he snaps his notebook shut. She had gotten too defensive, too nervous, but perhaps it had still been enough to send him looking in another direction…

Her relief is short lived when he clarifies, "For today, that is. If you could stop by the station tomorrow to make a statement on record, that would be greatly appreciated."

* * *

There's nothing she wants to do more than call Bryan, to see if the police had spoken to him, to confess to her own terrible performance, but she resists the impulse. If things progress further, and her phone records are dumped, the last thing she wants is an immediate, panicked call to the person the police are lining up beside her as their most likely suspect.

Instead, she forces herself to sit and compose herself. She's able to tell Kim the conversation as it occurred exactly, simply omitting the fact that she had blatantly lied to the police, and if her tone of voice is shaken, Kim doesn't think to question it. But then, her daughter is too full of righteous indignation on behalf of her parents to study Lenore's reaction too closely. For all the ways Kim reminds Lenore of Bryan at times, when Kim is angry she is all her mother – vocal, overbrimming, blustering.

"Who cares what the hell happened to him?" she declares furiously, her eyes flashing, and Lenore is reminded of how badly Kim was wronged by her stepfather, as well. It's almost impossible to remember that things had been good, once, between the three of them. Kim had liked her stepfather and Stuart had doted on Kim – he had never liked babies or toddlers but a well-mannered little girl had been perfectly fine in his books. When Kim had vanished in Paris, Stuart had been so worried, so eager to help. If Lenore still finds it difficult to believe that he had tried to kill her, she finds it equally hard to swallow that he had threatened Kim. That's the part that she thinks she'll never find peace with – she's Kim's mother, she's supposed to protect her, and she had inadvertently led this danger right to their door.

"They're just doing their job, I suppose," Lenore answers, trying to sound disinterested, detached, but her voice sounding strained instead. Amanda squirms in her arms, eager to get down and play, and Lenore releases her, taking the opportunity to drop her eyes and thus avoid her daughter's gaze.

"He was a criminal. The police should be thanking whoever wiped him off the map," Kim replies flatly.

Lenore looks up again, taking in the grim, hard expression on Kim's face. For not the first nor the last time, she's tempted to confess the truth. Kim had been right, a few weeks ago, when she had said that the two of them had never really had secrets. Not from each other. The heaviness of that pushes down on her chest as much as the weight of her guilt.

Kim raises her eyebrows just a fraction, as though she is waiting for something, but the words stick in Lenore's throat. It's all she can do, at this point, to protect Kim when she's failed so miserably before. To drag Bryan into her mess is one thing – their child is quite another.

When Lenore doesn't respond, Kim looks down at her own daughter, who has toddled over to Kim's bag and plopped herself down on her behind, rooting through the bag in search of a toy or a snack. "At the very least, they did this family a favor," Kim adds.

* * *

Lenore avoids calling all day, and instead later that evening she drives herself to Bryan's place. She lets herself in to the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind her and leaning against it for support. "Hey," she hears Bryan call from the kitchen – she isn't expected, but she and Kim are the only two who would let themselves in, the only ones with keys. Though she returns his greeting, she doesn't move, as though her feet have grown roots. When she doesn't approach, he comes to find her, his face creased in curiosity.

Upon seeing her expression, he doesn't even ask her what happened. "Sit down," he encourages, taking her elbow and gesturing towards the couch. "You look like you need a drink."

He pours her a glass of wine, and even as she accepts it, she mutters, "Got anything stronger?" She pinches the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache starting just behind her eyes, and she takes a sip, savoring the bitter liquid on her tongue.

He sits down beside her, patting her knee briefly in comfort and then leaving his hand there familiarly. "What's going on?" he asks, and she looks down at her glass.

"The police came to my apartment today. Inspector Dotzler, to be exact," she says quietly, and she can feel him straighten beside her, can feel his gaze on her grow scrutinizing as his demeanor shifts.

"And?" Bryan prompts, his voice even.

"And I…" her voice cracks in her nerves, and she raises her eyes, panicked, to look at him. "I think he knows, Bryan. Not exactly, but he knows that we were involved. They found the car, and they knew Stuart was at my apartment – he was _following _me, or having me followed, that's how he figured out where I lived – and they know he sent me flowers and they asked why I didn't call the police, and if I called you instead, and…"

"Wait," Bryan interrupts her, holding up a hand. "Flowers? What flowers?"

She draws her lip between her teeth nervously, remembering that this is a detail she hadn't even relayed to Bryan. At the time, it had seemed better to just destroy the arrangement and pretend it had never arrived; speaking about it made it real, served as a reminder of the fact that Stuart might be dead but there are always lingering reminders of him that pop up at the most unexpected times. "The day after we….some roses were delivered. From…him."

Bryan frowns, and exhales hard through his nose. "You didn't tell me about this," he says, a hint of reprimand in his voice.

"I didn't think it was important," Lenore replies, instinctively defensive. "But they saw the charge on Stuart's credit card, and they wondered why I didn't call the police…"

"Of course they wondered that," Bryan replies, and it's his turn to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Shit, Lenny. Why didn't you tell me about this? You should have mentioned it to your lawyer, at least, inquired some more about getting a restraining order. Then there would have been a record of your being concerned."

"I'm sorry!" she exclaims, and she pulls away from him in frustration, leaping up from the couch and pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table, three steps one way and then the other, her hands thrown up in frustration. "This is your area of expertise, not mine! I don't know how to do any of this! I don't know what's the right thing or the wrong thing to do…" She lowers her hands, and looks at Bryan. "Maybe I should just confess," she says quietly, thinking – but not saying – of how Dotzler's thoughts seemed more fixated on Bryan than on Lenore. At most, he seemed to think of her as an accomplice, but certainly not the culprit. "Maybe, if I explain…that I was afraid, that I thought it was in self-defense…"

"No," Bryan says immediately, fiercely. "You're not going to say anything of the sort. We can still see this through."

"I can't have anyone else take the blame for what I've done," she whispers, as close as she comes to confessing where the police thoughts are – though she imagines Bryan can guess, as he's expected it even before the news report came on television. It's more likely that he had expected it from the moment she called him that terrible night.

"It's too late for that," Bryan insists. "Others _are _to blame. Sam and I helped you, and if you confess, that'll come out."

"It doesn't have to," she protests weakly, and Bryan snorts.

"So you tell them – what? That you killed him, and got rid of a grown man's body on your own?" he points out, his eyebrows raised.

"I can…I can make a deal with them," she tries, running a hand through her hair, stressed. "The police do that. If it means they'll have a confession, I bet they would do that…"

Bryan stands now, his face darkening. "If you talk to them," he tells her firmly, "I'll go down there and tell them that I did it, and that you're lying to protect me. And which version do you think they'll believe?"

Her breath catches in her throat, and she stares at him for a moment that seems to hang for an eternity. "No, you wouldn't," she tries to deny, to call his bluff, but her voice sounds unconvincing even to her own ears. He doesn't even bother to argue; he simply raises his eyebrows at her and she feels angry, frustrated tears sting her eyes. "Bryan!" she protests angrily, his name cracking from her throat like a snap, and she feels a hot tear track down her face. "Don't be crazy!"

His face is stony and serious, and she wants to smack him for his stubbornness. "I am _not_," he starts fiercely, "going to let you go to prison for the sake of that son of a bitch."

"But _you_ would!" she snaps, angry at his hypocrisy, angry at the corner he's pushed her in with such an ultimatum. "How is it any better if _you _go to prison because of him?"

He looks surprised at that, and his face softens. He steps closer to her and he reaches out so that his fingers brush over her jaw. "Not for him. I wouldn't have spit on him if he were on fire. For you, Lenny. I love you."

It's something she knows but hearing it out loud, in such simple terms, is enough to break her. She knows it _now _but there were so many years she was unsure, that she was desperate to believe that he loved her more than he loved his job, only to be left feeling as though she and Kim would never be more than second place.

She feels her lip tremble, and her resolve crumples as she chokes on a sob. She instinctively closes the remaining space between them, her arms coming up around his neck and her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder, her posture defeated. She remembers their conversation at Kim's wedding, how he had promised that nothing would happen to her, to Kim or Amanda. She doesn't want his protection in this sort of way, from her own rashness and hasty decisions, but she's known him long enough to know that Bryan has never done things by half-measure. "Fine," she agrees, the words muffled by his shirt. She closes her eyes, her head pounding. "Fine."

"Dotzler might think he knows what happened," he tells her soothingly, his mouth near her ear, his hands resting on her back, "but he can't _prove _it, and that's what counts. He has no body, no weapon, no real proof that a crime even occurred. Their only hope would be a confession. We're not going to give it to them." He pulls back so that he can look in her face. "Trust me on this," he urges, and it makes her want to laugh, because who else _could _she trust about this? They have secrets and lies now that bind them together as closely as their shared history ever did.

"I do," she replies quietly. "I do trust you."

He nods, his breath releasing on a heavy sigh as he presses a kiss against her temple before releasing her, taking her hand instead and giving it a brief squeeze. "It's late," he says, his voice equally soft. "Come on."

They haven't put any sort of name to the routine they've fallen into, but if Lenore had to call it something, she would choose _comfortable_. Their days may be largely spent the same – some together, some apart, some with Kim and her little family, but largely engaged with their own work and separate routines – but more often than not now their nights end up together. It isn't something they necessarily plan; she's had a key to his place for a long while now, and he to hers, and often it is simply a matter of showing up unannounced. It isn't about sex, though she has to admit that that is certainly nice too, after so long. But more than that, it's a companionship that she's sorely missed, a balm for endless lonely nights.

There are nights like tonight when she simply follows him into the bedroom and they change in comfortable silence. A few items of her clothing have made their way into his drawers, but tonight she eschews the slinky, silky pajamas she usually favors. She finds she likes them less and less as time goes on; they are remnants of her life with Stuart, where there had always been the silent pressure of the well-off to always be beautiful and put together, even alone at night. Like all aspects of her life with Stuart, the luxurious lifestyle, it had started as glamorous and fun and grown more and more exhausting as the years went on and they grew more unhappy with one another. And if there is anything she doesn't feel anymore, it is _put together_, and she grabs one of Bryan's t-shirts instead.

She slips beneath the sheets and he reaches for her, pulling her to him so that her head is pillowed against his chest. It's a sweet gesture, one that she knows isn't the most natural for him anymore. She may wake some mornings to a hand splayed on her hip or his knees tucked into hers, but those are merely lucky accidents, and an elbow in her back or a foot pushing against her calves is far more likely. He sleeps like a man who is used to sleeping alone, his body seeking all the available real estate. Sometimes Lenore wonders if her presence is more of a nuisance than a pleasure and if he'd prefer she'd leave; all she can do is wonder, though – if she asked him, she's sure he'd deny it.

She, on the other hand, has never liked sleeping alone.

There are worse ways of sleeping, of course – the nights when Bryan would come home after months away and she would pretend to be asleep because she had been so angry and didn't know what to say, the nights where she would curl her body away from Stuart's to make sure they didn't touch and the tension in the room had laid over them like a fog. But in general, she's always found enormous comfort in the dip of the mattress beside her, the soft breeze of someone's breath at the back of her neck. She's gotten used to sleeping alone, but she'd never choose it, never prefer it.

The feel of his heart beating against her cheek is soothing, as is the absentminded stroking of his fingers over her hair, smoothing it away from her face. She releases a shuddering breath, and it sounds unnaturally loud in the silent room. Dimly she wonders what it would be like to lie here like this, with him, without the crushing fear pushing down on her chest, threatening to suffocate her. It's nearly impossible to imagine. Would they have ever found themselves here, would their paths still have crossed in this way again? She doesn't even know the woman she would be, free from all the troubles and worries of the last few years. "I'm so tired," she whispers. She's too world-weary to even cry, and she closes her eyes exhaustedly.

Bryan's arm tightens around her. "I know," he replies, and she can feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest. "Me too." He sighs heavily. "It'll be all right."

She isn't sure she believes that anymore. She isn't sure Bryan believes it, either.

* * *

At this point, Lenore is so used to waking suddenly from nightmares that it takes her a moment, the next morning, to realize that it hadn't been her own dreams to jerk her so violently from sleep this time. She accidentally elbows Bryan in the ribs as she twists in the sheets, her eyes flying open and her lips parting in a gasp, but he's already awake, frowning as he glances over his shoulder at the clock on his nightstand. Lenore cranes her neck to look as well, and sees the time is just after eight in the morning.

The sharp, loud knock on the front door comes again, and she realizes that the sound must have been what startled her – both of them – awake. Bryan curses quietly under his breath. "S'okay," he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep, and he touches her hip briefly, his thumb brushing over the bone, before he throws the sheets off. "Wait here."

She doesn't have to be told twice, and she burrows beneath the blankets, closing her eyes again. She can hear the low murmur of voices through the closed bedroom door, and she wonders vaguely who could possibly be knocking so early on a weekend morning. Kim wouldn't knock; Jimmy would, but he would call before just showing up, so her best guess is that it is one of Bryan's friends. Staying put is probably the best decision. They aren't being purposefully secretive about what they're doing – whatever it is – but they are being…discreet, at least.

Bryan returns after only a few minutes, and the grimness of his expression suggests to her that it hadn't been one of his friends at all – far from it. Concerned, Lenore sits up, pulling her knees in against her chest instinctively, protectively. "What is it?" she asks, and she can hear the tension in her own voice. "Who was it?"

"The police," he answers shortly, running a hand through his hair. "Dotzler. He wants us to go down to the station."

"Us?" she echoes, her brow furrowing, and he grimaces.

"Us," he confirms. "He saw your car outside. He knows you're here."

Her heart sinks, as though they have been already caught out, as though her presence alerts the police to what they really are – not merely an ex-husband and ex-wife, but co-conspirators to a crime, guilty of so much more than finding solace with one another.

* * *

The interview room isn't anything like she's seen on television – it's more like an office than the prison-like containment she had been expecting. The aide who had led her to the room had politely offered her a glass of water, but that she _does _remember from television shows, and she declines, instead sitting with her hands folded tightly in her lap, drumming her thumbs impatiently.

She is surprised when Inspector Dotzler opens the door and lets himself in. She would have expected that he would have taken a crack at Bryan, instead. Unless, she realizes with a sinking stomach, Dotzler has come to interview her because they know she's the weaker one, the one more likely to give them the information they needed. They aren't wasting their best detective on an ex-CIA operative who knew how to lie as easily as he breathed. This interview would be child's play for Bryan. She can't help but envy him, at that moment.

She drums her thumbs faster, and she's glad her hands are hidden beneath the solid wood of the table between them.

"Ms. Thompson," Dotzler greets, almost cheerfully, as though they are friends meeting again. This worries her more than anything; Bryan had told her before of how pleased with himself the detective had been three years ago, when he had finally pieced everything together. Could that be the reason for his good mood today? He casually tosses a file down on the table between them as he eases into the seat across from her, and she eyes it warily, wondering if he means to torment her again with the same pictures and information that he had brought out in her apartment, or if he has something new and even more damning to share.

"Inspector," she replies, and then adds drily, "long time, no see."

He grins, obviously amused by her snappiness. "Thank you for being so accommodating," he says, and he opens the file before him, uncapping his pen. "I just have a few follow-up questions I'd like to clear up. We never did establish why Mr. St. John's car was outside your house."

"That's because I don't know," she answers. "You would have to ask Stuart that." Surprisingly, it is much easier to lie this time. Perhaps it is Bryan's threat lingering in the back of her mind, the realization that she needs to lie and lie well not simply to cover her own tracks, but to stop Bryan from resorting to extremes to cover them for her.

He cocks an eyebrow. "That would be a bit difficult, seeing as he's missing, wouldn't it?"

"Then maybe you should focus on finding him, rather than asking me time and time again about his stalking techniques," she shoots back, her voice dripping with venom. Dotzler leans back in his chair, twiddling his pen between his fingers, studying her between narrowed eyes before abruptly switching focus, pulling something from the file sitting on the table between them.

"Do you know this man?" he questions, sliding a picture across the table to her. Puzzled at the abrupt change of subject, she bends her head to glance at the photo of a severe looking man, with dark hair and a hard jaw, and a tattoo on his hand. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and distractedly, she reaches back to smooth them down. She doesn't know him, and yet there is something familiar that nags at her subconscious, like a mosquito she can't quite swat away.

"I…I don't know," she answers hesitantly, tilting her head as though that may give her greater insight. "I feel like I've seen him before but I don't…" she breaks off and then raises her eyes accusingly. "Is this the man that Stuart hired to follow me?" she demands, but even as she asks the question, she knows that isn't the case. She closes her eyes briefly, and the realization washes over her like an icy shower, cold enough down her spine that she shivers. "No," she corrects herself quietly, "I think…I think he was one of the men who…who grabbed me at that gas station."

She opens her eyes again and looks back at the picture, and there is no mistaking it this time. His eyes pierce at her, dark and angry, the way she sees them in the vestiges of her nightmares, the things she would rather leave forgotten. She draws her lip between her teeth, nipping hard, and nods. "That's where I know him from," she says, and with trembling fingers, she pushes the photograph back across the table to the detective.

Dotzler nods, his face grim. "We believe he's the man who took over Malankov's…operations," he says, steepling his fingers together, leaning forward over the table. "And along with it, his outstanding loans and debts. Including, perhaps, the debt your ex-husband owed him."

"Right," Lenore answers crisply, a humorless smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "No dead wife, no insurance payout to save himself, right?"

"And," Dotzler adds after a long pause, as though he is considering giving her the information or not, "we found Mr. St. John's car in his possession."

Relief bubbles up so strong that she has to press her lips together into a hard white line to keep from bursting into inappropriate laughter. Had it been purposeful, or some strange coincidence? Either way, it is the first lucky card they have been dealt since that terrible night, and it is nearly impossible to bring her racing mind back to Dotzler's next question.

"You say you haven't spoken with Mr. St. John since his release, but have you received any other strange calls? Wrong numbers, hang-ups? Calls at strange times, numbers you didn't recognize?"

She shakes her head. "No, none that I remember," she says honestly enough, even as she runs through a mental rolodex of the calls she _has _made and received. That terrible night that Stuart had appeared at her door she had called Bryan, but they spoke often enough on the phone that she couldn't imagine it would arouse too much suspicion. "But then, I changed my insurance policy a long time ago, so I'm not the commodity I once was." She means the words to be flippant, but Dotzler smiles sympathetically.

"Well," he says as he gathers his papers together, "if you do receive any phone calls or messages, or gifts that seem strange to you, I hope you won't hesitate to call the police this time." She takes a deep breath as she watches him begin to clean up his things, as though the interview is over, and for a blessed moment, she thinks they've managed to get away with it. But then he adds, very quietly, as he pushed a copy of her statement across the table to her, "And not whomever else you may be tempted to call."

She looks up sharply, the calmness she had felt escaping like air from a balloon as her heart leaps in her throat. Dotzler smiles at her, as pleased as the cat that has caught its prey. "There's a lot of things we don't know about what happened," he tells her, his voice barely audible, "but one thing I know for sure, Ms. Thompson, is that you and Mr. Mills haven't had a single truthful word between the two of you for us." He hands her a pen, and leans back in his chair. "If you could just sign your statement, please," he asks her quietly, as though he hadn't just quietly threatened her, told her that he knew she was signing her name to a lie.

For a moment, she nearly falters. She almost apologize, throws herself on his mercy and sympathetic smile. _I'm sorry, I did it, it was my fault_, she almost tells him, she almost warns him that Bryan will try and say differently, but he is lying, lying to protect her when he should have let her go long ago, because she's too far gone to save.

But she can hear Bryan's voice as though it is close against her ear again. _Trust me_, he had asked her and she had promised that she would, that she _did_. Her heart racing, she looks down at the statement before her, the mundane lies she had given the police, and she scribbles her name before her courage can fail her all together.

"If you could just….stay in town, while we continue to investigate," Dotzler asks as she slides the paper back over to him, and he slides it back into the file.

"Of course," she says, her voice flat. "Where else would I be?"

* * *

Bryan is coming out of the room three doors down when Dotzler releases her. His face is calm, composed, and in the doorway behind him, Lenore can see Inspector Johnson scowling angrily. She wonders briefly if Dotzler had told him that he suspected them of lying, but either way, she very much doubts Bryan gave him anything to work with.

For a moment, she forgets Dotzler's gaze on her back, forgets the eyes of the other officers in the hall, and she quickens her pace as he turns and sees her. "Bryan," she says, her voice tense, her nerves taut as a bow. The air feels almost suffocating, and she just wants to leave the police officers with their suspicious glances and their working theories behind.

"All finished?" he asks, his voice casual as though they are there on a matter of no great importance. He takes her hand, tucking her trembling fingers into the crook of his elbow, and she holds tight, keeping her eyes on the exit.

When he pushes the door open, the sunshine outside is so bright that she's momentarily blinded, and her relief at leaving the station is so great that it leaves her light-headed and she sways briefly on the spot. Bryan doesn't pause or stop, his arm going around her waist like a vice grip and keeping her moving. "Hold it together," he urges quietly, and she nods, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping her head up as though she isn't walking away from her own ruin.

They're parked in the lot across the street, still within view of the station. He stands in front of her when they stop, and he's tall enough to block out the sun. She leans back against the door of the car and takes a deep breath, feeling her head clear. "You okay?" Bryan asks, his voice laden with concern, and he ducks his head a bit, trying to catch her eye.

She nods distractedly, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the police station, looming in the background. "Dotzler knows we're lying," she tells him, her voice barely above a whisper, as though even from here the police could see them. "He told me he knows we haven't been honest."

Bryan nods, his face concentrated as he carefully digests this information. "Well, if that's all he had to say, I'd bet he doesn't know much more than that," he finally deduces. He puts a heavy hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze and a little shake, as though she's a teammate. "You did a good job, Lenny."

Lenore bites her lip. "He showed me a picture, too, of one of the men who they think worked under Malankov. He thought they might have come after Stuart for the money he owed them. I think…I think it was one of the men that night…" she breaks off, taking a shuddering breath. Three years later, and sometimes it is still hard to reconcile what happened. And just when she feels as though she might be moving on with her life, the memories are starting to resurface, bit by bit, like shards of glass that could cut her to ribbons. She remembers the piercing, hard gaze of the man in the photo, penetrating even through the picture, glinting and sharp like the blade of a knife…

She doesn't realize her fingers have closed around her own throat, clutching, until Bryan gently pulls her hand away, holding it tight between his own. "I'm sorry," he tells her quietly, and she blinks rapidly, as though she can shake the vision away that way.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about," she says, trying to brush off his concern, and his grasp around her fingers tightens, his expression grave.

She puts her free hand atop of their clasped ones and looks down at their white knuckles, their tight grip. She thinks if anyone saw how tightly they clung to one another, they would know them for guilty at a glance. How could they be anything else?

And then she looks back at the police station, which suddenly seems further away from before, and she thinks of what Sam told her, of how easily people disappear. It's a thought that's comforting and terrifying all at the same time. Perhaps Bryan is right, and Dotzler doesn't know anything more than the fact that he is being lied to. But there are days that she feels so untethered, still, that the idea that someone could simply slip away and no one would notice leaves her uneasy.

"Bryan…" she starts, her voice halting, and he looks at her, his eyebrows raised patiently as he waits for her to continue. _Don't let me disappear_, she wants to plead, but the words die on her tongue as she meets his eye. He is possibly the only person on earth she doesn't have to ask such a thing of, him and their daughter. She has to trust him, trust them, trust that it's enough, and let herself fall. "Thank you," she chooses instead, and he gives her a small smile, bringing their clasped hands to his lips and dropping a brief kiss against her knuckles before releasing her.

"Come on," he says, opening her car door. "Let's go home."

She isn't sure if she means his home or hers. It doesn't really matter, anymore.

* * *

Author's Note: There will be a short epilogue that shouldn't be too long coming, and that'll be it for this story! I figured it was only appropriate to wrap up the story in the way the films are – concluded, definitely, but with an opening for more should the occasion rise.


	5. Epilogue

Summer in Los Angeles finally breaks into fall, a relief from the scorching heat as they speed towards winter, and still no more evidence surfaces to damn them.

They aren't completely forgotten. Inspector Dotzler makes it a habit to call or drop by, approximately once a month, but his questions grow vaguer and his tone grows weary as the trail goes cold. The news media moves on entirely – there is always someone else missing, another murder or disappearance, and often the victim is someone much more sympathetic to mainstream America than a shady businessman newly released from prison. Maybe it is a mistake, but she can't help but feel a little safer, a little more secure, with each passing day, and a little voice whispers at the back of her mind, _maybe you'll get away with it_.

Lenore goes to the beach often, sitting by the shore and looking out over the ocean that holds their secret. She thinks of that night out at sea, and how Stuart's body is likely nothing more than bones now, resting on the ocean floor, becoming less and less every day until finally he does disappear in truth. She thinks of the bones and she thinks of the man, of the shock at seeing him at her door that evening. But her fear feels like a separate thing now, like it belongs to someone else. She can't think of him with any sort of affection or sympathy, despite the fact that they were once happy – not after what he did to her, what he did to Kim and Bryan, what he tried to do to save his own skin. But at times she can think of him now without being overtaken by breathless fear, and that is its own sort of revelation. She can barely remember a time when she was not afraid all the time, skittish and jumping at shadows, and finding her way back from that is like rediscovering herself.

There are some days she doesn't think of Stuart of all, nor of what she and Bryan have done. When the first of those days come, she is overwhelmed with guilt once she remembers. For some reason, she had determined that carrying the weight of her sin was the only proper punishment as she managed to evade the police. But slowly, bit by bit, she forgives herself. It is not an easy task; she has always carried a grudge beautifully and she herself is no exception to that rule.

It is not easy, but it is a start, and it is a relief.

* * *

It is Halloween and they are dressing little Amanda in her princess costume when Kim tells her that she knows her secret, and the fake plastic jewelry that Lenore had been wrestling to free from its package falls from her hands.

"_What_?" Lenore blurts, horrified and immediately wracking her brain for where they might have slipped, what evidence they might have left uncovered – and if their daughter discovered it, would it only be a matter of time before the police did as well?

But Kim only chuckles at her mother's wild-eyed panic, peeping up slyly from her work at tying the sash at the back of Amanda's dress. "You know," she says, her voice amused. "I know you and Dad are…'hanging out,'" she jokes, choosing the same term that she had suggested to Lenore when she had been a teenager, a time that felt a thousand years ago.

"Oh," Lenore replies, her breath releasing in a giant rush, as though she's been hit in the stomach. She's so relieved at not being caught out that it takes her a moment to digest what Kim had actually said, and then she pauses. "Oh."

She isn't sure how to feel about Kim's declaration. They haven't said anything thus far but they haven't been _sneaking_, either. What they are is just so inexact, and always shifting, that it is difficult to put it into words. And did they _have_ to put it into words, necessarily? Kim may be their daughter, but that didn't mean she has to be privy to the ins and outs of their relationship. Maybe Lenore enjoys the bit of secrecy, of privacy.

On the other hand, maybe she is afraid that whatever they are tentatively building between them won't last. Their track record, after all, is far from impressive. To tell Kim, to tell _anyone_, is to make it real, and to make it real would make it solid, make it breakable. It's illogical to think that way, but she's had enough bad luck in love that her choices, made in self-preservation, don't always make sense.

"What makes you think that?" she asks, purposefully evasive.

Kim shrugs, obviously trying for casual but failing in the attempt as she begins to braid Amanda's hair. "It just seems like you're there an awful lot, or he's over here." She raises her eyes again from her task, a smile tugging at her lips. "And I don't think Dad uses conditioner or Venus brand razers but they're in his bathroom. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know what conditioner is _for_."

Lenore winces a bit. Bryan, most likely due to his obsessive nature, keeps a nice home, but he's still undeniably a _man_, with a habit of purchasing dollar store shampoo and toothpaste and not much else in the way of amenities. "Kim, you shouldn't snoop," she scolds instinctively, though she can't muster any real ire. "Besides, you don't know those things are mine. They could be anyone's." She looks up at Kim, and she can't help but smile faintly at the incredulous look on her daughter's face.

"Come on. Mom. This is _Dad _we're talking about," she snorts, and she pats Amanda lightly on the behind. "Go play," she tells her daughter warmly. "We'll leave when _Sesame Street_ is over, okay?"

Lenore watches as Amanda hops off, nearly tripping over the poofy hem of her skirt. This year, Amanda had been excited to get all dressed up but is still too young to really grasp Halloween, so that her favorite television show is a far greater temptation than leaving immediately, but Lenore imagines next year will be a different story. Time stops for no one, it seems.

The soft touch of Kim's hand on her wrist startles her from her thoughts, and she looks back at her daughter. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Mom," Kim reminds her gently, a bit of a laugh in her voice. "You don't have to tiptoe around me because you don't want to get my hopes up. You and Dad are both adults, you're both single, you can do whatever you want. I just want you to be happy," she finishes, her voice wistful, and for all her protests that she isn't a little girl anymore, when she looks at Lenore with those big brown eyes of hers all she can see is a child's earnestness. "It's been such a long time since I've seen you really _happy_."

She wants, immediately, to comfort Kim, despite knowing the truth of her statement. The last few years of her marriage to Stuart had been miserable; the last three years had been nearly unbearable. There have been happy moments, of course, but for the most part she has been in a fog, a haze of loneliness and sadness. It _has _been a long time since she's been happy, long enough that she's almost forgotten what it feels like, long enough that she has to pause, now, and think – _am I happy? Is this happiness? _

She squeezes Kim's hand, and settles on, "I'm trying, sweetie. I'm getting there."

* * *

It's November when Bryan starts traveling again; he'd taken enough close assignments with the security company, taken enough advantage of Sam and Bernie and Casey's friendship, and, he tells her, he has to get back to pulling his weight.

She knows she should be happy, that it's a sign that life is getting back to normal – or as normal as it can be, for them. Still, she worries; she thinks she'll always worry. She worried even when they were at their most estranged, and she buried her worry behind scathing criticisms and sharp barbs. But it is a bit easier than it was before; they are assignments, and not missions, and he is gone for days or maybe a week or two, rather than months on end. He is discreet, as the business requires, but he doesn't have to be silent the way he did in the CIA, and she knows where in the world he is, and when he'll be coming home.

_Home _is an ever-shifting idea. She's never been attached to her apartment in the first place – the last three years have been full of so much misery that she has few happy memories attributed to the place – but now she can scarcely cross the threshold without looking at the floor and thinking of Stuart's body stretched across the tiles, silent and still.

So she finds herself spending more and more time at Bryan's. He had moved again after Stuart's arrest, and so his new place has no unpleasant memories attached to it, no reminders of things she'd rather leave forgotten. Even while he's away and she has no reason to not go home, she finds herself going to his apartment. It feels less lonely, amongst his things, although it is still hard at times to not feel like an interloper. It is nothing Bryan has ever said or done that makes her feel this way; it is merely the fact of moving through the life that he has built on his own, without her, the unfamiliarity she has with the little nuances of his daily life that serve as a reminder that she hasn't been a part of that life for years and years now.

Bryan spends two weeks in New York just before Thanksgiving, working security for visiting dignitaries, and she doesn't return to her apartment once in the meantime. To her surprise, there isn't even a need to stop for a change of clothes, a pair of shoes, a hairdryer...and when she realizes that, she isn't shocked at all that Kim had noticed something. Without Lenore even realizing it, her things have largely migrated to his place, finding a foothold like weeds, carving out a place for herself in the face of the feeling that she does not belong.

She wonders if Bryan has noticed. She wonders if he minds.

He's due home on Saturday morning, and arrives earlier than expected, well before the sun comes out. The lights flicker on in the bedroom, waking her up, and she blinks open her eyes to see his surprised face looking down at her. "Lenny?" he asks, his voice edged in puzzlement. Apparently he hadn't noticed her car outside, and she isn't expected.

"I'm sorry," she says awkwardly, her voice thick with sleep as she props herself up on her elbows, suddenly uncertain of herself, if she has crossed some sort of invisible line that she should not have passed by letting herself into his home as though it were her own, sleeping curled up in his bed while he was away, waiting for him like they were still married. "Should I…?"

"No," Bryan immediately answers, cutting her off before she can finish expressing her doubts. He sits beside her, the bed sinking under his weight. He puts his hand on her knee, squeezing reassuringly through the sheet she has tossed over her. "No, of course not. I'm glad you're here." He looks exhausted, his face creased with weariness, heavy bags beneath his eyes. She frowns, concerned, wishing for not the first time that he would find something else to do, for his own sake, rather than run himself ragged with the line of work he's chosen.

They're both so much older and so much more tired, and she wonders if they'll ever be able to rest.

"Everything went okay?" she asks, her voice laced with worry. She remembers those rough years after he had joined the CIA but before they divorced, when he would come home closed-lipped but sporting new scars, angry and deep. This isn't the same, but she still wonders sometimes if she can bear it again – but then, leaving him in the first place hadn't stopped her from worrying in all those years inbetween.

He nods, his free hand passing briefly over his face. "Yeah, it went well. Just, you know…long flight back."

"Well, then, come to bed," she says sensibly, before taking a moment to smile ruefully at the humor of inviting him to sleep in his own bed. If Bryan finds it strange, he doesn't comment.

She's half asleep again by the time he finishes getting ready and the light goes back out, before she feels the bed shift a second time, the rustle of the sheets as Bryan slips in beside her. Unexpectedly, he reaches out for her, his arm sliding around her waist, fingers brushing the bare strip of skin exposed between her tank and her shorts. His hand is warm, and she gives a small, sleepy murmur of contentment. His fingertips are callused, the skin of his palms rough and weathered, but his touch is always soft, part of the walking contradiction he can sometimes be.

Unbidden, she remembers her therapist's words, _this type of men_, and she thinks about how there is blood on both of their hands. Blood on their hands, and yet Bryan can still touch her this way, with gentle affection, and it makes her feel like the world just might keep turning after all.

"I missed you," he murmurs, and there is such an undercurrent of wistfulness in his voice that she knows, instinctively, that he doesn't just mean the two weeks that he'd been away.

She twists in his embrace, turning to face him, though the room is dark enough now that she can't make out his expression, merely his outline. She seeks him out with her hand instead, brushing her fingertips over the stubble of his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. He turns into her touch, his lips brushing the inside of her wrist, his fingers closing over hers as though to hold her there.

It surprises her, a bit, to hear him say that. Bryan has always been so stoic and solid, moving so comfortably through the single life he'd built for himself, the life he'd _chosen _for himself, always seeming to find it easier than she did to maintain some sort of boundary and distance between them. She knows he felt guilty for all the years he had spent away and missed with Kim, but in all that time he had never married again, never seemed close from what little she knew of his life, and so she had assumed that he preferred it that way, preferred to be alone. It has been easy, then, to think of herself as intruding or imposing, but perhaps in truth Bryan hasn't just been alone, but lonely as well.

A surge of tenderness floods her veins at the thought; she had worried for so long about imposing, had hated feeling needy. She has never before bothered to consider that perhaps there is something he needs in return, that perhaps their relationship isn't as unbalanced as she had feared.

Perhaps, she thinks, it is time to stop preparing for failure.

Carefully, she eases closer, seeking out his mouth in the dark first with her fingertips, then with her lips, kissing him softly. His hand falls away from her wrist, settling heavily on the small of her back instead, warm and comforting. Solid and sure, like him. "I missed you, too," she says quietly, honestly. She feels like she's spent endless time missing Bryan, all the long, long stretches he would be gone while they were married, and even – maybe especially – the years after.

She feels, rather than sees, his smile, and she turns again, closing her eyes. The nightmares still come, most nights, and perhaps they always will. But she's learned to find solace in the fact that the morning always follows.

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed – if you did, please take the time to leave a comment. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated. That marks the end of this story (at least for now). Thank you to everyone who took the time to leave me words of encouragement. I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and thank you for taking the time to leave feedback. It really means the world.


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